


Remember Us As War (but call us forgiveness)

by Anyaparadox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forced Marriage, HEA, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Population Law, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 76,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyaparadox/pseuds/Anyaparadox
Summary: Following the devastation of the Battle of Hogwarts, The Wizarding Population Growth Act is put into effect. All witches and wizards will be matched with their most compatible partner. Failure to comply will not be tolerated.  Survival is key.Hermione reminds herself of this. Survival. She can fix this, if only she can survive. The war has made this a task she is equipped for. Marrying Draco Malfoy will hardly be the worst thing she's ever endured.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott
Comments: 343
Kudos: 748





	1. An Unexpected Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my first Harry Potter fanfiction :) I have tried to tag as many possible warnings as possible - but I must say, this fic is happier than I made it sound, for the most part. It is also an 'ensemble' fic; there will be certain chapters that feature little Dramoine, however, the main plot revolves around them. Please ask if you have any concerns. 
> 
> This title was inspired entirely by Nikita Gill's incredible poem "I Named Us Grief" which I have included below. Please check out her work.
> 
> Please drop a line if you enjoyed reading. Additional tags at the bottom of chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags for this story present at the bottom of this chapter with a "Possible Spoilers" tag. Please read if you are concerned.

* * *

**I Named Us Grief**

I call us part dread, part song

part story, part wrong.

We built our castles in each other

out of splintered spine and blood.

We met in grief and

were held together by its mud.

Took crowns made of bones

placed it on each others heads.

We loved each other with

fragments of ourselves that were dead. 

This is why we couldn't rely

on the promises that we spoke.

Perhaps in a different time

I would have named us hope.

Perhaps in a different universe

we would not meet so battleworn

And I would call us forgiveness,

and not remember us as war.

_\- Nikita Gill -_

* * *

_August 2nd, 1999 - Monday_

The tawny owl tapping on her window is both huge and insistent. Hermione stares at him briefly through the glass above her kitchen sink, unsure if she should allow the strange bird entrance. Still, it’s hardly in her to be rude, so she slides the glass open and the owl drops the rolled parchment unceremoniously. He stares her down with one doleful orange eye, and Hermione gives him a small treat she keeps on her windowsill. He coos gently at her before taking off again.

Hermione frowns; owls only leave before picking up the return mail if the owner specified they required no response. Hermione waves her wand gently over the parchment roll, testing for any harmful or dark curses. She’s quick to draw her wand these days; years of war and battle making her suspicious. _Constant vigilance._

The letter in front of her, however, is harmless. Simple parchment, strung with an emerald green ribbon, and a crest that makes goosebumps break out over Hermione’s skin.

Two snakes twined together around an M — she’s never received a letter with this crest before, but she still knows it, can feel it in her bones. It brings to mind cruel laughter and long white-blonde hair. 

_Malfoy._

Her hands shake as she breaks the seal and opens the roll. If her name wasn’t at the top of the letter she’d believe the owl had somehow mistakenly delivered this to her. Nevermind that her small cottage is completely unplottable, fidelius charm intact with only Harry as secret keeper. She doesn’t even have the Floo connected — it’s a wonder Malfoy’s owl could even find her. It must have been searching for _hours_. 

She unrolls the parchment slowly, trepidation filling her.

_“ To Miss Hermione Jean Granger:_

_I must first thank you for standing at my trial, and at my mother’s, a year ago. I know that it was only Potter’s and your testimony that kept us from Azkaban. Her freedom for the past year and four months has meant a great deal to me._

_I would also like to apologize for the way I treated you in Hogwarts and for my choices in the war. I have no excuse. You are a brilliant witch, and I regret that I ever made you feel inferior._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_ _”_

Hermione sets the letter on her counter with trembling fingers. She can feel herself shaking like a leaf; unsure if it’s shock or fear that rushes through her veins.

Hermione had realized long ago that Draco Malfoy was raised to believe that blood purity directly related to the value of a witch or wizard. She doesn’t need a vivid imagination to understand the father Lucius Malfoy must have been. Hermione had long forgiven his schoolyard taunts and bullying. He was a child. They had all been children, fighting a war that they didn’t deserve to fight.

There was very little room for hatred in her heart any longer.

Still, she had never imagined a day when she would hold an actual _apology_ letter from Draco Malfoy. Never imagined he would ever thank her for standing at his trial; a decision that had caused both her and Harry a great deal of grief. Never imagined him ever penning a letter so _proper_ , so unlike every cruel thing he’d ever snarled at her.

She couldn’t stop staring at the last sentence. _You are a brilliant witch._

Though she has never doubted her intelligence, and always surrounded herself with those who valued her, the words hit her as hard as a punch. The 11-year-old girl in her memory, still shaking after first hearing the word _mudblood,_ still somehow wondering if her blood affected her magic and value, is silent. 

Tremulously, Hermione lifts the letter to her heart. A great weight seems to fall from her, and she carefully takes the letter to a small chest in her office. She locks it away, a secret that only she holds. Hermione imagines that Draco Malfoy would prefer it this way; proof of his heart held under lock and key in the last place anyone would look. 

* * *

_September 13th, 1999 - Monday_

She had no intention to send a response to Malfoy’s letter. Instead, for almost a month, Hermione keeps the letter hidden away in her small cottage, out of sight but never quite out of mind.

She throws herself into work with the same passion she always shows, forms and applications for House-Elf Relocation never spending over two days on her desk. She’s determined to make a change from inside the system, and although S.P.E.W hadn’t gone exactly to plan, she still carries a torch for all the House Elves in the wizarding world who deserve _more_.

The world needs it now; rumblings of discontent seem to follow her everywhere she turns. Abandoned businesses have been slow to return, Hogwarts is facing lower enrollment than even during the war, and people are still afraid. Hermione is determined to make a change, and it compels her to begin where her passions lie, with non-human magic users.

Still, when the clock hits 11:55 Hermione jumps up. She often works through lunch, but today she rushes down to the cafeteria.

Eagerly she seeks the lunch table she shares with Harry whenever he’s not off on Auror business. Draped across the table is a copy of the Daily Prophet, and she moves to toss it away like the trash she feels the Prophet is. 

Splashed across the front page are large black words and a moving image of a casket dropping into the ground. **_‘Malfoy_** ** _Matriarch_** ** _Dead at 45’_**.

Her heart drops abruptly when she recognizes Draco Malfoy’s shadowed face in the moving image. She snatches at the paper, reading furiously as she plops into her usual seat.

Narcissa Malfoy dead at the incredibly young age of 45. No written cause of death. Draco Malfoy listed as the only surviving member of the Malfoy line.

Hermione has no love for Lucius Malfoy, but she recalls when he was found dead in his cell in Azkaban only six months to the day that the war had ended. Though they hadn’t released a cause of death, it hadn’t been hard to deduce that he had slowly withered away in his jail cell until his body finally gave in.

She had not celebrated, nor grieved, or even spared a thought for the remaining Malfoys.

Now, though? Now a pang of sadness fills her that she cannot seem to shake for Draco Malfoy, orphaned at only twenty. Hermione hadn’t known how Draco felt about his parents, but it’s no secret in the wizarding world that Narcissa Malfoy loved her only son. It’s arguably the crucial point that had kept her from Azkaban. Her love for Draco had inspired her to deceive Voldemort and subsequently save Harry Potter’s life.

She stares a moment longer at the shadowed face in the photo; it’s familiar in that she recalls the angular lines, pointy chin, and sneer lingering at his lips. The white-blonde hair is a dead giveaway, but Hermione can’t help but linger over his eyes — grainy in the photo. She wonders if he’s sad.

“What’s that?” Harry’s voice tears her away from her whimsical thoughts as he approaches their table.

She clears her throat, “The Prophet is reporting that Narcissa Malfoy is dead.”

Harry seems shocked for a moment before he recovers and sits down in front of her. “That’s… actually a shame.” He seems sincere, “Can’t believe she only got a year and four months of freedom.”

His words ring in her ears, echoes of Draco Malfoy’s letter: _“Her freedom for the past year and four months has meant a great deal to me.”_

Had he _known_ she was dying?

For a split second, Hermione debates telling Harry about the letter Draco Malfoy sent her only the month prior. It’s all on the tip of her tongue, about to spill out, but Harry pushes the newspaper away and sets a steaming coffee in front of her.

“Coffee, two creams and one sugar,” Harry’s green eyes sparkle, “for my favourite witch.”

Hermione laughs, “What about Ginny?”

“Don’t tell her I said it,” Harry faux-whispers, “but you’re both tied for the favourite.”

Hermione chuckles and sips the coffee, studying her best friend over the rim. There is nothing, no mountain or ocean or monster, that she would not conquer for him. His messy black hair and green eyes are as dear to her as her own.

It’s not common that they take lunch together, their respective jobs eating away at all their free time. The memo he had sent to her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that morning had been most welcome, and she had leapt at the chance to see him.

Ron hadn’t been available, which had come as no surprise, though Hermione finds she misses him. It’s only been three months since he had left his Auror training unfinished at George’s behest. She and Harry hadn’t blamed him. Restoring Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to its pre-war glory and getting George back on his feet had been a priority. The world needed a few more practical jokes and laughter.

It came as no surprise that working alongside George in a joke shop suited Ron. He had always loved the inventions the twins had cooked up, and the mischief they had managed.

Ron had enjoyed Auror training, too, and Hermione had known he would have excelled at being an Auror. He had a logical mind, a sharp eye for strategy, and was no stranger to the battlefield.

Still, Hermione was glad he had decided on a different path. The war had taken its toll on him, the same as all of them, and Hermione couldn’t stand to watch the constant trial of hunting down dark wizards chip away at Ron’s spirit. It had been his inherent joyfulness that had dragged her and Harry through some terrible times.

“I miss Ron,” Harry says, toying with the lid of his teacup, “We haven’t seen him in _ages_.”

Hermione smiles, “I was just thinking the same thing. I’ll owl Molly, I know it’s her birthday at the end of October, so perhaps we can get Ron involved in some sort of birthday party planning.”

“That’s over a month away!” Harry objects, “It’s only September!”

Hermione smirks, “One can never be too prepared, Harry Potter.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but fondness radiates out of him, and Hermione can’t help but smile helplessly back at him.

They talk of meaningless things; her cottage, and whether she had finally gotten her parents' old house sorted. She asks after Ginny’s quidditch career, and if Harry is enjoying his newly minted full-fledged Auror status.

“Shacklebolt is stressed,” Harry says in a low voice, “I think the public and the Wizengamot are putting the pressure on him.”

Hermione scoffs, “What is he supposed to do? Single-handedly recover the economy and the magic population after a devastating war?”

Harry shrugs, “I suppose that is what they expect.”

“There’s nothing but time that can solve this, Harry.” Hermione cautions, “The best the Wizengamot could offer is perhaps incentives for small business owners? They could offer more business loans to non-human magic users!” Suddenly Hermione us rejuvenated, filled with purpose.

Harry smiles good-naturedly, but it’s easy to see he doesn’t share her fire, “I don’t think they’ll go for it, Hermione.”

“But — but imagine!” Hermione despairs, “Do you know how many werewolves probably have incredible business ideas, or could increase the labour market?”

Harry nods somberly, “I’ve always agreed that the general treatment of werewolves is abhorrent, and unfortunately it’s only gotten worse since the war.”

“Greyback,” Hermione all but growls the name, furious in the injustice. The wizarding world is quick to drag Fenrir Greyback into every conversation regarding werewolf rights — his infamy falls before all werewolves now, a shadow of cruelty and sadism. How quickly it seems people have forgotten Remus Lupin; his kindness and gentility, and the ultimate sacrifice he made to have peace. He had spent his entire _life_ fighting against Voldemort, and it had made no difference in how the world saw werewolves. Hermione’s fury over this has sustained her through hundreds of meetings regarding Werewolf Social Supports and the Werewolf Inclusion Act. 

Harry agrees but swiftly changes the topic so Hermione doesn’t become bogged down with her fury. They chat about Molly Weasley’s upcoming early birthday party, and decide they’ll plan to invite Bill and Fleur home, and Charlie, though they doubt he’ll take the time to return from Romania. Perhaps they can request an international Floo call.

Their lunch flies by, and Hermione drags herself almost unwillingly back to work. She can’t stop thinking about the Prophet article she had read. The thought of Draco Malfoy, alone in the behemoth of a manor, haunted by all the horrors that had happened there.

Hermione picks up a quill, summoning a piece of parchment. She shoves her forms and memos away from her and starts drafting a response to the letter she had sworn never to reply to.

She takes over an hour scribbling away until she’s satisfied, then copies her completed draft over to a clean parchment. She rolls it neatly, tying it with a spare red ribbon in her desk. Unlike the Malfoys, she has no family crest, so she simply uses a spell to create a small wax seal to hold it together.

She heads to the ministry owlery — it’s much smaller than Hogwarts, containing only a few owls free for any ministry employee. She chooses a small, nearly black owl with large yellow eyes, and affixes her letter to his foot.

“Please take this to Draco Malfoy.” Hermione requests, “He doesn’t have to reply, so you can return once you’re done.”

The owl shoots into the air, and Hermione watches his form fade until she can no longer see him, and even then she lingers, her own words mocking her in her memory.

“ _To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,_

_I’m sorry for taking so long to respond to your letter. For your actions in school, I must tell you I forgive you. We were children, and I cannot bear to hold a grudge for that. For your actions in the war; well, I imagine that you didn’t have much of a choice, though I suppose that may be of no comfort. If it grants you any peace, know that I don’t blame you._

_I read the news of your mother’s passing this morning. I am very sorry for your loss. I wanted to tell you it was no hardship for me to stand at her trial, as her actions in the war allowed my best friend to live. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with her after the war ended — I’m_ _truly_ _sorry you didn’t have longer._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger ”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings (POSSIBLE SPOILERS): Pregnancy, Infertility, Unwanted Pregnancy, and Pregnancy Loss are mentioned throughout this story. I will put warnings on those specific chapters where needed. 
> 
> The Rape/Non Con tag is present, but I wanted to assure others that there is no explicit writing of rape or non-con; however, within the 'marriage law' concept there is reference to it happening in general. At NO point will I write this happening from a characters POV.
> 
> Lastly: there is references to suicide in this story, both in passing and in more explicit detail later on. I will also put additional warnings on these chapters.


	2. An Early Birthday Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am updating a little sooner than planned simply because it's about to be Canadian Thanksgiving! So no update coming your way this Sunday, but perhaps Monday or Tuesday. For now, enjoy this large chapter. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it.

* * *

_October 21st, 1999 - Thursday_

* * *

Despite the fact that the Burrow had to be rebuilt after the war, very little has changed. There's less clutter, to be sure, as many of the Weasley's small knick-knacks disappeared in the flames. It also helps that none of the children except Ron live at home anymore, and even Ron is in the process of finding his own flat.

The kitchen is still small, and backs onto a large green field where Hermione will often watch the Weasley's and Harry play quidditch. It's one of Hermione's favourite places in the world. It's always bustling with energy, and laughter rings from the windows even as they apparate to the front stoop.

Molly nearly lifts her in enthusiasm when she hugs her; fussing over her appearance. Hermione hugs her back just as tightly, the closest thing she has to a mother left. She's eternally grateful that despite her and Ron not working out romantically, they had remained friends, and that Molly and Arthur Weasley had barely blinked when the relationship had crumbled.

Sometimes Hermione wondered if it was because they had already lost too many children; a disastrous attempt at romance was hardly about to estrange another.

"Happy early Birthday!" Hermione cries, and Harry gloms onto their hug, squeezing them tight.

"Blimey, Mum," Ron's voice echoes from the kitchen, "let them breathe!"

Hermione beams at Ron and dashes towards him, embracing him tightly. He laughs into her ridiculously messy curls and spins her slightly.

"It's been way too long, Moine," he mumbles, blue eyes sparkling, "tell me, how are the House Elves?"

Hermione laughs, "They're good, thanks for asking. Closer to equal status every day, hopefully. How is the shop?"

Ron's face lights up and before she knows it he's describing the newest Quidditch line he's invented that George had okay'd — it's been flying off the shelves, literally. He describes their "Weasley Whips" and "Bludger BonBons" and Hermione lets herself drift for a moment, content in his radiating happiness.

"Ron, I'm so proud of you." She says, finally. He flushes a deep red, but he nods slightly.

Harry calls them over to the table — already crammed full of people. Arthur sits at the head closest to the door, Percy on his right and Ginny on the left. Bill and Fleur had made it for Molly's early birthday party and sat at the opposite end of the table. Percy and George faced them, leaving the spots open for the usual golden trio.

"No Bill?" Harry questions.

Molly sighs, "No, unfortunately, he's busier than ever in Romania. He sends his best though!"

Dinner is roasted chicken with baked potatoes, and Hermione rivals Ron for how much gravy she can pile onto her meal. It's been ages since she's had a home-cooked meal, and Molly Weasley is no slouch in the kitchen. They had offered to make dinner or order in to celebrate her birthday, but she had insisted that cooking was her pleasure. The table buzzes with happy murmurs, and Hermione remembers a time not so long ago that everything had felt hopeless. She had never thought they would get back here.

"Mrs. Weasley, this is delicious," Hermione compliments.

Molly waves her off, "You're too kind, dear."

It's Harry who finishes his meal first and floats the empty plates to the sink, performing a quick household charm to start the washing. Hermione is momentarily impressed, as household charms had never been something Harry had excelled at. Ginny is beaming, however, and it occurs to Hermione that Harry might be showing off just a little.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry starts, once all the plates are away, "we've a present for your birthday."

Molly's eyes shine for a moment, "You didn't have to do that, darlings."

Ron shrugs, "We did, Mum. Last year we had just finished the war and were still rebuilding, and this is the first time it's felt halfway normal."

Arthur reaches over and clasps his wife's hand, "Molly, we all love you very much."

Hermione takes that as her cue and pulls her wand out to levitate the object they had hidden in the closet. It's covered in dark velvet, and Hermione leaves it near the table so Molly can unwrap it herself.

Molly stands slowly, and all the conversation halts, as though they are collectively holding their breath. She slowly heads to the velvet cover and drags it off, exposing a shining mahogany grandfather clock.

Her gasp is soft but audible, and she slowly lifts a reverent hand to touch the glass face gently. It's got ten spindly arms, each spelling out a name. Instead of the time, the clock reads: Safe at Home, School, In Transit, Work, Hospital, Mortal Peril, Bed, Lost, Shopping.

"Merlin," Molly Weasley breathes, "It's just like my old clock."

Her old clock that she had carried everywhere with her until it had succumbed to flames. Hermione was glad only that Molly never had to see Fred's hand slowly slide to lost.

Arthur stands and moves to her trembling form, "George had the idea, love. We knew the old one so well, so we had it designed in Diagon Alley, but then it was Hermione who took it to get charmed. Took us ages. Turns out it was a very unique clock."

"It was," Molly says, finally turning to them. She has tears in her eyes, "It is. This is… this is beautiful. Too much."

George shakes his head slowly from the other end of the table, "No, Mum. It's not too much. You deserve it."

Molly smiles, "And you added a few names. I love it. Harry, dear, and Hermione, I had always wanted to add you to my old clock."

Harry flushes, "Yeah, Ron insisted you'd want it."

Molly smiles, a full broad smile they had hardly seen since the Battle of Hogwarts. "This is the best birthday gift ever, my darlings. Thank you."

She doesn't mention that every single hand on the watch is pointed to Safe at Home; a parade of names: Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Harry, Hermione, Percy, Bill. The only exception is Charlie, alone and aimed at Work. It's the first time since their third year at Hogwarts that Mortal Peril has no hands pointed towards it. It's a welcome sight.

The moment is broken only by a loud thumping noise outside their kitchen window, where a snow-white owl now perches. For a heart-stopping moment, Hermione thinks it's Hedwig, come back to life.

Percy moves to the window and lets the strange owl enter, unclasping what appears to be a satchel of letters. The owl takes off without a moment's hesitation, and Percy frowns down at the pile of parchment in his hand.

"They're letters from the ministry," Percy states, "quite a few of them."

He tosses a rolled-up letter to George, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and keeps one for himself.

The letter sits heavily in Hermione's hands. She's not sure what's coming, but dread washes through her, and she knows she's not the only one to feel it. Harry is so accustomed to his life falling apart that his hands don't even shake as he unrolls his parchment, the first to even break the seal.

He sucks in a breath at what he finds and grits his teeth. Half of Hermione wants to tear her own letter open and read, but she's spellbound, watching horror and disappointment flit through her friend's green eyes. He turns to Ginny momentarily, looking as though he's been punched.

"I — I don't know what to say," Harry says, "I'm… I'll read it. I'll read it for you."

The warmth of the Burrow seems to fall away as Harry reads, and Hermione wants to sink through the floor. All of this — all the fighting and pain and death, and this is what it's come to.

_"To Mr. Harry James Potter:_

_As you may be aware, we are facing many challenges to the wizarding world as we know it. Our economy has fallen 73% in the past five years, our school registrations have dropped by a third, and the birth rates of witches and wizards have been more than halved. On top of this, the many losses we suffered during the Second Wizarding World have made for an almost impossible situation. In an effort to regrow and rejuvenate our world, the Ministry of Magic hereby declares the 'Wizarding Population Growth Act' or WPG in effect._

_The WPG mandates that all witches and wizards from ages 19 to 40 that are eligible will be matched with a compatible partner. Rest assured, your partners will be drawn from a pool, and compliment your personality and magical signature. A marriage between you and your partner must be completed within 30 days from your assignment. A child must be conceived within the first year of marriage, or, in the case that it becomes necessary, other fertility options or treatments may be pursued._

_If a witch or wizard cannot procreate, the marriage may be annulled or maintained, depending on preference. If annulled, a new match will be provided. If the original match is maintained, a surrogate or donor may be used._

_Your assigned partner will be provided 24 hours from now. The matches have already been made, and the people of the wizarding world will accept the names they have been given. We recognize this is a difficult choice, but for the greater good of our wizarding world, we must persevere._

_No elopements or marriages will be allowed, recognized, or honoured in the next 24 hours._

_Regards,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic_

_Babajide Akingbade, Supreme Mugwump of International Confederation of Wizards_

_Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot"_

The silence that falls as Harry's voice fades is dark. After a moment, all that is heard is the scrambling of hands-on paper as every letter is unrolled. Hermione's own copy lays in her limp fingertips, every word the same as Harry read, other than the greeting, spelling out her own name.

Arthur's face is as red as his hair, "How dare he? How dare Kingsley? We fought with him. We're friends."

Percy is the first to shake his head, "I don't think it's Shacklebolt, dad. I think he didn't have a choice. The names listed at the bottom? This law has the backing of the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards."

Harry turns to Ginny in a flash, "We'll run. I can get an illegal portkey, we'll go. I'll marry you, Ginny Weasley. I won't marry another."

Ginny's smile is marred by tears, "I'd marry you, too, Harry Potter, but they won't acknowledge an elopement. They say so in the letter. We'd never be able to come home."

Ron turns to Hermione as the others erupt in conversation. His eyes are downcast, and his voice is soft as he speaks. "Hermione, I know it didn't work out between us, but if I'd known this was coming… I would have married you."

He means it, too. She's not surprised; Ron's loyal to a fault, and though they aren't in love with each other, they do love each other. A marriage to Ron wouldn't even be so bad; at least she knows him. At least he's kind.

She could get any name. It could be anyone.

"It's not your fault, Ron," she slides a hand into his, "we didn't know. There's nothing we can do."

The words are lies in her mouth because she's already planning. She stares across the table at Harry, who has no eyes for her, only Ginny. Hermione has seen Harry Potter in every state: thrilled over his first broom ride, exhilarated but terrified while fighting a dragon, and with grief etched into his face with loss, even still and cold with death. She's never seen him look like this.

Hermione won't rest while the ministry steals the happiness that Harry has found. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs her, she'll fix this.

Mrs. Weasley is weeping at the head of the table. Not loud sobs, just silent tears tracking down her cheeks. All the warmth and happiness from only a few minutes prior has been stolen.

"Come back tomorrow at 5 PM," Molly implores them all, "let us be together when these letters arrive."

"Sure, mum." Ron whispers, still staring at the letter, now crinkled in his fist. Hermione nods along. She has nowhere else to go, and she needs to know whose names they all receive.

Bill and Fleur cling to each other as they stand slowly. They make their way to Molly and hug her tightly, whispering in her ear. They are headed back to Shell Cottage, which they made their permanent residence after the war. Hermione has never been jealous of them before, but she stares at the way Fleur has tucked herself into Bill, the way he clasps her to his side. They have escaped this law; they are in love.

It's something the rest of them might never have.

They say their goodbyes shortly after Bill and Fleur depart, wishing Molly a happy birthday, though the magic of the evening has disappeared. Hermione notices that the hands on the clock still point to Safe at Home, though she feels like they should have moved.

She hugs Harry and Ron goodbye and then apparates with a crack.

She lands on the front lawn of a large house. She's been here before, though rarely. Few in the wizarding world have this much access, however, and Hermione intends to use every advantage she has.

She slams her fist on the white door, not pausing in her barrage even when she hears footsteps.

The face that greets her is almost unrecognizable. Kingsley has developed deep lines in his forehead, marks of grief and stress. He looks clammy, and when his eyes fall onto her, he appears as though he is carved of stone.

"Hermione Granger," he intones, "I should've known you'd come."

Hermione grimaces, "Kingsley, I won't insult you by assuming that you approved of this ridiculous WPG act."

Kingsley closes his eyes slowly, pain flitting across his face. "I do not. I am also affected by it, you know. I'm 38 this year. I'll be receiving my name assignment tomorrow, the same as you."

Hermione nods slowly, "I'm sorry to hear it."

They stare at each other, and it reminds Hermione of so many meetings during the war. She's always respected Kingsley. He's no fool, and he's always treated her as an equal.

"If you're here for me to change your name, I can't. I can't help you at all."

Insulted, she fires back, "I'm not here for me, don't you understand?"

Kingsley frowns, but it clears almost as instantly, "Ah. I see. You're here for Harry."

Hermione takes her own pride and dignity out of the equation. She's already said she'd do anything for Harry, and she'll prove it.

"Listen to me, Kingsley. You cannot do this to Harry Potter. You owe him. The entire wizarding world owes him. I'm begging you. Do whatever you have to do, pull whatever strings you have, but make sure he receives Ginevra Weasley's name tomorrow."

Shacklebolt sighs, "I can't, Hermione, don't you think I would have tried to get myself out of—"

"You don't fucking matter, Kingsley," Hermione snaps, the expletive exploding from her lips, cutting off his words. His face registers hurt, but she's already moved on. "You don't matter. You're a grown man, a grown man who has known happiness and safety and just, well, more. Harry Potter is the best of us, the best of the entire wizarding world, and right now you are the only person I know who can make sure he didn't sacrifice everything: his parents, his schooling, his friends, his name, his reputation, his life — for nothing. Can you imagine his parents' reaction to this? Imagine Lupin or Sirius? You're telling me they died to protect him, only for us to spit in the face of his bravery? Don't repay the debt we all have this way, Kingsley. Do the right thing."

Hermione's words are knives, and she aims them where it matters. Kingsley seems smaller than she's ever pictured him in her head, and for a moment she feels guilty. He's done his best with the garbage hand the war had dealt him, and Hermione is grateful for everything he has managed. She knows his hands were tied, but she hates it.

He exhales, "I'll try, Hermione. I make no promises."

Hermione nods, "It's the best that I could ask from you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She whirls on her heel and takes only two steps before turning back. Kingsley Shacklebolt's dark eyes watch her from his doorframe.

"Also," Hermione hisses, deadly, "you should know that if he gets a name that is not Ginny Weasley's tomorrow, I'll burn the entire Ministry down. This isn't a threat, it's a warning for you to run. Give him Ginny, Shacklebolt, or prepare for war."

She apparates with a crack.

* * *

Her cottage is dark other than a small glow from her end lamppost when she apparates to the front lawn. Weariness drains her soul, and she slogs towards the green front door, only to find a letter on her porch. It's familiar, only in that she's seen the wax-sealed crest that holds it closed once before.

Snakes around an M, sloppily pressed this time, as though it was done in a hurry. Hermione is so sick of opening letters.

She enters her house, the front door opening into a cozy living room on the right and kitchen on the left. Everything is muted earth tones and soft, the safest haven Hermione could create after the war. The lamps ignite with wandless magic, and Hermione plops into an overstuffed armchair that reminds her of Gryffindor tower.

She unrolls Malfoy's letter to find a hastily written script. Hermione can't recall Draco Malfoy writing anything in a hurry in her life. She wonders if it's a reply from her letter a month ago, acknowledging his mother's death.

_"Granger,_

_I assume you've received the letter from the Ministry. Consider this warning a portion of my debt repaid._

_Crabbe, Goyle, Montague, Rowle, Selwyn, Dolohov, Yaxley, Travers, Rookwood, Jugson, Avery, or Marcus Flint._

_If you receive any of the names I have written, ignore your Gryffindor bravery for once in your life and run. They are Death Eater families and you are in danger._

_There may be others. If you receive a name you are unfamiliar with, proceed with caution. Do not share this letter with anyone._

_Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy."_

Hermione rolls his letter again and sits on her couch, drained. Malfoy's warning bounces around her skull, and Hermione wonders if she should have fought harder for herself. If she gets a relative of Dolohov, she'll take Malfoy's advice and run for the hills. Her side twinges in remembered pain of his curse in the fifth year, and all the complications it had caused.

Hermione has never been the type to pray, but she desperately hopes she gets a name she recognizes. Someone patient; someone who will understand when she wakes and can't leave her bed because her shaking is so bad. Someone who shuts doors gently and moves slowly and doesn't ask why she has no parents.

Although she's never harboured a romantic inclination towards any of the Weasley's other than Ron so long ago, she almost hopes she gets one of them. It would be easy to marry George, or Percy, or even Ron. There'd be no passion, she's sure, but they wouldn't be unhappy. There would be understanding. It might even be the best-case scenario.

Her tears are abrupt, and Hermione lets herself fall into painful hysterics. Her soft carpet still hurts when she falls to her knees, and she cries as she hasn't cried since the war. She sends up silent prayers, willing to be selfish for this moment.

_Please, let it be someone kind._


	3. A Familiar Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments and kudos on this story, it truly means so much to me. This chapter is the first time we see a rotating point of view... so without further ado, here is George Weasley :)

* * *

_October 22nd, 1999 - Friday_

* * *

George arrives at the burrow earlier than any of the others. The shop had been less busy than usual today, a sombre air hovering over every customer. The Wizarding Population Growth Act was all anyone could discuss. George had seen customers whose fury over the entire thing could have rivalled his own, and some customers who were grateful that the Ministry was ‘finally doing something about the post-war recession’. Usually older, or already married. Nothing to lose.

George shakes his head of the day’s trial and tries to prepare himself for the evening ahead.

For the millionth time in only a few hours, he wishes Fred were alive. 

Fred would have fought the WPG. Fred would have fought this with every molecule of his being and George — well… George _is_ outraged, he is. He’s furious on behalf of his family, his siblings, but he just…

George doesn’t want to marry a stranger, of course. But he doesn’t have it in him to fight another war without his brother.

“George,” his mother greets when he walks through the door, “good to see you, dear.”

George easily hugs Molly Weasley, noting that she has a frown on her lips, and all the stress that had disappeared in the months following the war seems back in full force.

Her new clock is sitting in the spot of honour against the wall where her old clock had once stood. Though most of the Burrow had burned, they had salvaged most of the structure, and the layout remained the same as before. 

All the names on the clock are accounted for, most pointing to _Work_ or _In Transit_. George reads the names of his family, and swallows down the pang that hits him when Fred’s name is nowhere to be found.

They had debated adding it to the clock, but Bill had been practical, stating it would hardly be helpful to have Fred’s clock hand permanently stuck to _Lost_. Hermione had mentioned that the charm may not even work, as the clock hands were charmed using each individual’s magical signature, and Fred… well, he was gone.

“Where’s Dad?” George asks.

Molly Weasley bustles around the kitchen, looking busy with a dishcloth in her hand. She’s not dusting anything in her travels, just wringing the cloth between her fingers every few moments.

“Oh, just in the garden. I think he just needed a moment.”

George grimaces. Of all the Weasley clan, his father boasts the calmest temper. It never bodes well when Arthur Weasley is enraged to the point where he must pace around his garden.

“Hope he’s not working himself up too much,” George mutters.

Percy’s arrival interrupts his mother’s response, and before they can even greet him, Hermione slips in the door behind.

She looks tired, George notes. Her normally curly hair sits in a subdued knot on top of her head, and she’s stuck a pencil through the strands. On any other day, George would purposefully muss her curls, only to watch her careful pony fall out and shoot off in all directions.

“Where’s Dad?” Percy asks, an echo of George’s earlier question.

“Garden,” he answers at the same time as Molly.

Hermione frowns out the window, “Should we go get him?”

“No, dear,” Molly assures, “He’ll be in soon. Charlie owled us to tell us he got permission from a Floo call after the letters tonight, and Arthur wouldn’t miss this.”

“Charlie got a _letter_?” Hermione is aghast, “He’s in Romania!”

George rolls his eyes, “He’s still a citizen here, though. They probably sent them to every registered witch and wizard in England.”

Percy heaves a sigh and plops down at the table in his regular seat, “Not only is this entire WPG a pile of dragon dung, but it’s also an administrative nightmare.”

George rolls his eyes at Percy’s words and catches Hermione’s eyes, bringing a laugh to her lips. 

“Hello, kids,” Arthur’s voice is welcome and calm when he opens the back door, and George is happy to see his dad with his usual smile on his face.

“Hi, Dad,” Percy choruses, and Arthur joins him at the table. 

By 4:57 PM everyone is sitting straight-backed and stressed at the table, and Harry rushes through the front door with Ginny at his side.

“Harry, Ginny, you barely made it in time!” Hermione cries, and Harry hugs her quickly before finding his seat. Ron follows them in much more sedately and has barely perched into his spot before an owl swoops through the open back door. 

The parchment isn’t rolled into a scroll this time; instead, they are in envelopes, sinisterly coloured a deep black. Molly dutifully hands out each letter, a grimace on her face though she says nothing.

When everyone is sitting, staring at their respective black envelopes in front of them as though they are Howlers, destined to explode in their faces, it is Percy who shows his Gryffindor courage.

“I’ll go first,” he says.

It’s a kindness, George knows. Percy has no significant other. Though he’d be foolish not to know his entire future hangs on what he will read in the envelope, it doesn’t feel quite as devastating as Harry’s or Ginny’s might be. George realizes suddenly that his own status is the same.

“Daphne Greengrass,” Percy says finally, “I don’t think I know her.”

“Slytherin,” Ron nearly spits.

Hermione sighs, “She was in our year. She was in Slytherin, yes, Ronald, but that doesn’t mean she’s evil. I don’t remember her being mean.”

Percy nods, his face is paler than he’s ever seen it. George grabs at the black envelope in his hands, dread spreading through his limbs. He just wants to get it over with, and he nearly tears the entire envelope in half in his haste, so unlike how Percy had neatly ripped the seam.

" _George Fabian_ _Weasley_

_has_ _been found_ _a favourable match with_

_Parvati Diya Patil._

_Congratulations."_

George can feel his head spinning as he reads the words — the parchment itself is as black as night, with ivory ink across the page. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen, and the letters swim in front of his gaze for a moment. 

“Parvati Patil,” he finally chokes out, “could be worse. She was a Gryffindor, I’ve met her.”

He recalls she had long black hair and smooth dark skin, and a soft voice. George can’t remember ever actually speaking to her, just hearing her in passing. She’d been in the same year as Ron, so he had never shared classes with her.

“Parvati’s nice,” Ron says, interrupting his musing, “pretty, too.”

George frowns. She probably _had_ been pretty in Hogwarts, but it has suddenly occurred to George that he will have to _know_ her. He has to meet her and talk to her, and _kiss_ her. And he has absolutely no choice about it. 

“Oh _bugger_ ,” Ron’s voice interrupts George’s thoughts again and he looks up. His youngest brother is clutching his opened envelope and looking like he’s seen a ghost. Hermione’s face is pale and creased with worry, and George lets his imagination run wild over what could be written on Ron’s parchment.

“I got Hannah Abbott,” he says, “and she’s nice, but what about _Neville?!_ They’ve been dating for ages!”

The table is silent at the news, and it’s Harry who finally speaks in a voice that sounds as though he’s being dragged over gravel, “I suppose he’ll accept it.”

“Go next, Harry.” Hermione urges after Harry’s words.

George trains his eyes on Harry Potter, pushing all thoughts of Parvati Patil out of his brain. He can feel his vision flicking between Harry and Ginny, and George prays to whatever deity can hear him to _help them out a little_.

Harry and Ginny open their envelopes together, and when they glance at the black parchment, it’s clear as day when relief breaks over their expressions. It’s like the sun rising behind storm clouds.

Ginny bursts into tears, launching herself towards Harry, and he barely blinks at the impact of her body.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We got each other.” He says almost dazed.

George sighs and glances at the clock against the wall. Fred’s name isn’t there, but sometimes he _swears_ he can still feel him. 

When he glances back, Hermione has an odd expression on her face, vacillating between smug and despairing. George frowns at her, but she never looks away from Harry and Ginny’s embrace.

She clears her throat and grabs her envelope.

“Alright,” she says, and slides a finger down the seam. The table falls silent and stares at her, the last of their family to open the envelope.

George watches her read stoically, only a flicker of surprise registering. It means nothing; George realized in Hermione’s third year at Hogwarts that of all his friends and family, she is the best liar. Perhaps it is unkind to say that, but her poker face is impenetrable. 

“I got Draco Malfoy,” she states.

Her words cause pure chaos — Ron snarls and pulls his wand as though he can curse him from afar. George can feel rage and thunder that he hadn’t expected to ever feel again, ready for the war he had sworn he would have no part in.

George opens his mouth to hurl threats, but Harry beats him to it. 

“I’ll go to Kingsley,” Harry snaps, “I’ll fight before you spend a moment trapped in that Manor again.”

George has never heard Hermione speak of what happened in Malfoy Manor, but he knows that Ron still sometimes wakes screaming her name. He’s seen the scar that mars her forearm, and sometimes, on family dinners when he feels Fred’s absence like a crater in his chest, Hermione will appear and sit by him on the back porch. She never says anything, just presses into his shoulder, and George feels a little less like dying.

He realizes his wand is out, and he’s ready to follow Harry into another war. He’s not the only one — the entire Weasley clan looks ready for battle.

Hermione remains oddly calm, “Harry… Harry… it’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t have to live in the Manor — there’s no law stating I must reside with my husband.”

“Yeah, just a law stating you have to marry the git,” Ron sneers, “do you _actually_ think he’s going to live in your little cottage?”

George has never been to Hermione’s house. No one except Ron and Harry has. George envies her in that regard because he still lives above the store in the flat that he and Fred had shared, and his entire family pop in and out by Floo as they please. Sometimes, after a busy day of them visiting, George will stare at the empty fireplace and wait for Fred to come home for a moment before he realizes he never will.

“I don’t know,” Hermione snaps, “let’s not panic yet. It could have been worse.”

George trains his eyes on her left fingers, settled on the table. Her pinky is trembling, and she moves it under the table, away from his gaze. 

It’s an after effect of sustained torture via the cruciatus curse, George knows. He’s seen it before, both in friends and customers at the store. Hermione is hardly the only one who suffers from it, though she is good at controlling and hiding it. 

“How?” George surprises himself by answering her, “How could it be worse?”

Ron nods furiously, “Yeah, Mione, that man called you a mudblood for _years --_ ”

“Ronald Weasley!” Molly cuts Ron off, horror in her voice. Ron snaps his mouth shut but doesn’t take back his words. George supposes that he’s not wrong, and Hermione knows it.

“Hermione, dear,” Arthur begins, “we won’t jump to conclusions. Why don’t you write to Mr. Malfoy, and if he is... not... a suitable match, _then_ we can take our case to the Wizengamot? You may call in a favour to Kingsley — he’ll help us. He owes you that.”

Hermione nods slowly, “I’ll do that, Mr. Weasley.”

George narrows his eyes — he’s seen it. She’s lying. She’s lying to his father’s face about contacting the Ministry, and George knows, he _knows_ , he is the only one who has seen it. 

A sputtering green flame distracts him from pursuing it further, and then suddenly Charlie’s face is filling the fire. His long hair is loose around his fiery face, and he looks so similar to Bill it’s eerie. 

Molly rushes to kneel by the fire, “Charlie, dear, how are you?”

Charlie smiles, but he seems tired, even through embers, “I’m fine, Mum. I’ve only got a few minutes, but I thought I should tell you who your new daughter-in-law will be.”

George watches his mother’s eyes fill with tears, and his father stands from his chair to stride to her side. He clasps her shoulder gently, and George suddenly finds the determination welling up inside him that he always thought he needed Fred for.

It’s so _unfair_ — his parents have fought in two wizarding wars to keep themselves and their family safe and free. George has watched his mother cry over her long-dead brothers, and he has watched his father mourn over Bill’s scars, and he will never forget their screams over Fred — 

No. 

George will _not_ stand by and watch this hard-won freedom be stolen. He’ll be damned before he watches his mother marry off every one of her surviving children into loveless matches. 

“It’s Astoria Greengrass.” Charlie’s voice is monotone, so unlike his usual vivacious tone,

“Bloody hell, we’ll be drowning in Slytherins and Greengrass sisters,” George snaps before he can hold his tongue.

Charlie frowns through the fire, “Pardon?”

Percy sighs, “I got Daphne Greengrass. We’ll be marrying the sisters.”

“Is that even _allowed_?!” Ron is aghast.

George rolls his eyes, “Oi, mate, c’mon. Of _course_ , it’s allowed. They’re not marrying _each other_.”

“I’ve never met her,” Charlie says wearily before Ron can retort, “I plan on owling after this call. She’s... quite a bit younger than me.”

George thinks back to Hogwarts, but he can’t place Astoria Greengrass. He vaguely recalls there was an older sister in the same year as Ron.

“She was the year below us in school,” Hermione murmurs, “only 19.”

George abruptly wonders if she’s scared. He knows better than most how gentle and kind Charlie is, but all the Greengrass girl will know is that he’s a Weasley. Worse, she’ll be able to find out he’s a 28-year-old Dragon tamer that lives in Romania full time. Not exactly a refined pureblood aristocrat. 

“I’ll write to Daphne tonight then as well,” Percy says, “that way we leave neither sister wondering.”

Charlie nods, “At least I know I’ll like my brother-in-law.”

George winces when his mum’s choked laugh turns into a sob. His father kneels down beside her and tightens his arm around her shoulders. 

“Sorry, Mum,” Charlie frowns, “guess I should’ve listened to you and settled down years ago.”

George thinks briefly of Angelina — they had broken up before the Battle of Hogwarts, and though she had written to him after Fred… well, he wasn’t ready.

He’s still not ready — not for Angelina, or Parvati, or _anyone_.

“Listen to me, children,” Molly Weasley climbs to her feet and straightens her spine, “this is _not_ your fault. This is the fault of those in the Wizengamot and Ministry who are too narrowminded to let us _heal_ in peace. This law may bind you to a spouse you would not have chosen, but you will always have this family as your own.”

Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, and Ginny buries her face in Harry’s shoulder, and George clenches his fists all over again. 

Charlie nods at her words, “That is a comfort. I’ll talk to you all soon.”

His head disappears, leaving a small fire burning in his place.

The silence that remains is endless. Hermione stands slowly, finding her feet on shaking legs. “I think I’ll go home as well,” she murmurs, “I should... I should write a letter.”

Ron stands, “I’ll walk you out.”

George watches her make a quick round of hugs, squeezing his mum tightly. Ron follows her to the door, and George snatches up his envelope with the dreaded name on it and disappears up the stairs. No one stops him, and George escapes to Percy’s room, leaving the light off and sitting on the bed, cracking the window just slightly.

Percy has the advantage of facing the front of the house, and George has never claimed to be honourable. He pulls out an extendable ear — he wonders if Hermione will explain why she was lying. If not, he’ll ask her to her face the next time he sees her. 

“—I want you to try with Hannah. Maybe you can be happy?” Hermione’s voice fills his ear, and George angles himself to glance down at the front stoop out the window. She’s facing Ron, a few feet apart. They both look a little pale, but where Hermione seems resigned, Ron is all fury.

“Hannah’s great, but she’s going to hate me. She’s losing Neville over this, y’know?”

George closes his eyes for the briefest moment because this is all _shite_. Ron — Ron is good. Ron is the most like Arthur Weasley out of all the children, and it shows in his steadfast nature, his loyalty. Of all of them, George had always thought Ron would be the one to find a nice girl and have a whole new batch of Weasley kids with her.

He listens as Hermione comforts Ron, insisting he be kind to Hannah and try with her. It's excellent advice, and George thinks perhaps he’ll use the same strategy. Approach Parvati as a friend and find a common ground before the _marriage_. Too bad he hardly remembers her at _all._

George sinks deeper into Percy’s old bed, the thought of getting married swirling around in his brain like a maelstrom. He only clicks back into his brother’s conversation when Hermione finally releases a secret.

“Ron, I’d like it if you didn’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone, not even Harry.”

George frowns — all thoughts of marriage forgotten. He isn’t close with Hermione, not the way Ron or Harry is, but he’s never known her to keep anything from Harry. The war had cleaved them together, and secrets aren't something that lingers when three people live together, survive together. They’re thick as thieves. 

“What is it?” Ron’s voice asks.

George watches Hermione glance down at his mother’s patchy flower bed, glaring at the drooping begonias. Fall has crept upon them, and everything is dying. It feels symbolic somehow.

“Draco Malfoy wrote to me,” Hermione blurts, “three months ago. To apologize.”

George nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get closer to the window. Of all the things he thought she would confess to, this was not it. George had imagined her sneaking into the Ministry, threatening whoever she needed to. He had expected a _fight_.

“Now I’m not saying he’s a saint, I’m not even saying he’s one of the _good guys_ , but listen — it could be worse. He _owes_ me for standing at his trial, and he knows it.”

“An apology is one thing,” Ron says staunchly, “a marriage is entirely another.”

George wants to applaud Ron’s words, just a little. 

“You’re right, Ron. But I don’t see that I have much of a choice, here. I could run, sure, but I’m not willing to lose the only family I have left.”

George can feel himself smiling down at their shadowed forms. He understands her sentiments; even _he_ would marry Malfoy before he’d ever give up his family. Hermione is choosing the lesser of two evils — they just never imagined that marriage to Draco Malfoy could be considered the lesser evil.

“Hermione,” Ron’s words echo in the night with earnestness, “you are the smartest witch I’ve ever met. You can get rid of this stupid law — you can fix this. You won’t have to stay married to him. I just know it.”

George sighs at Ron’s speech. It’s not that he’s _wrong_ , exactly — Hermione is incredibly bright, the _brightest witch of her age_ , in fact, but he’s laying a monumental task upon just her shoulders. To find a loophole to dismantle the Wizarding Population Growth Act could take months, if not _years_. Hermione Granger might be able to do it, but not even George is foolish enough to believe she can do it within the next thirty days.

The Ministry, though flawed, is rarely sloppy. 

“Ron, I’m going to try,” Hermione promises, her voice in his ear, as clear as if she was standing beside him, “I’m going to fix this, and you and Hannah can be friends, and George can marry someone he _loves_ , and I swear to you, I’ll fix this.”

George swallows the lump in his throat; she had thought to include his happiness? She had always been kind; more thoughtful than the others. George almost wishes he had pulled her name — he doesn’t love her, doesn’t even see her as anything more than an honorary sister, but it would be so _easy_. They would be good and kind to each other, and ghosts from the past could linger between them, and he would understand. She would understand.

He watches his brother pull her in for a tight hug, and he wonders what _exactly_ it was that tore them apart when they had dated. He doesn’t blame them — recovering from war is hardly the place to find a budding romance, but Ron has remained tight-lipped over the real reason. 

George suspects that even Harry doesn’t know. 

He goes to pull out his extendable ear as Hermione turns to leave, but at the last second, Ron’s voice stills his hand.

“Hermione, if he hurts you, we’ll kill him.”

George has never heard Ron speak the way he is now — heavy with darkness and fury. Before this moment, George would not have thought Ron capable of it. Yet, George doesn’t doubt him; Ron is battle-hardened, experienced in the art of war, and prepared to kill. The ‘we’ he had spoken of must include Harry. 

George supposes that the three of them — the _golden trio_ — have done worse than this before.

Hermione stares at Ron below George’s hiding spot, her face shadowed in the distance.

“Ron,” her voice is soft and firm, “if he hurts me, I’ll kill him myself.” 

George rips the extendable ear from his own, unwilling to hear people he loves so dearly be monsters in front of him. 

Unwilling to accept that he would do and be the same.


	4. A First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos! I will be posting a chapter on Tuesdays each week (next week I will be posting two chapters, as they are both shorter). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_October 23rd, 1999 - Saturday Early Morning_

* * *

Hermione wakes to sunshine on her face, streaming in from her dark navy curtains. She stretches luxuriously, the entire weekend looming in front of her. Her bedroom feels lazy and gentle, and Hermione feels at ease in her haven. She purchased the cottage only a month after the war — staying in her parents’ empty muggle house had almost driven her mad with grief, and when she sold it she converted nearly all her muggle money into galleons and moved herself into the wizarding world fully. She’d bought the cottage, not too far from London, and settled in, intending never to go home again.

The cottage is small, just a single bedroom and bathroom with a kitchen and living room. The living room is the largest section of the house, with oversized couches and bookshelves lining the walls. The backyard opens to a small back porch, wild vines and flowers growing abundantly. It’s safe — warded to the teeth with every protective magic she’s ever come across, and that’s the most important part.

She’s halfway through making some eggs for herself when a tapping at her window startles her. It’s the same tawny owl she had seen nearly three months ago, orange eyes still glaring at her. She opens the window and feeds him a piece of bacon she had cooked. He lingers on her kitchen windowsill, and Hermione realizes that this time he won’t be flying away from her empty-handed.

His master expects a response.

She leans against her counter and opens her letter, the daunting Malfoy crest familiar under her fingers.

_‘_ _Granger,_

_I am hoping you are free this evening for coffee. I am fond of the muggle coffee shop ‘Java Corner’ off of Russell Square in London. Would you be able to meet me there, at 5PM?_

_If it does not suit, I am open to other days or times._

_I await your response,_

_Draco Malfoy_ _’_

Hermione rereads his words three times before she realizes that _Draco Malfoy_ has asked her for coffee - in Muggle London, no less. She glances up at the intimidating owl, wondering how on earth she will answer his letter. 

Hermione flips her eggs and pulls them off her grill, levitating a new piece of parchment over as she does so. She takes only a moment to scrawl a response to Malfoy, and she feeds another nibble of bacon to the owl before he takes off.

She eats her breakfast, barely tasting anything. She has agreed to meet with Draco Malfoy at the coffee shop he named — she wonders if he truly has ever frequented the coffee shop before, or if he just pulled a name out of nowhere, thinking she’d prefer Muggle London.

Hermione takes her time showering, and instead of charming her hair, she allows it to dry in the sunshine of her backyard, book on wizarding marriages in hand. She doesn’t expect to find anything interesting in this particular tome, but she’s already owled Minerva to see if she can pull anything from Hogwarts that could be of use, and until she receives a response she’s stuck with what she has.

It’s only 3:30 PM when Hermione bundles herself into her nicest jeans and a comfortable sweater. Admittedly, she has put more effort into her appearance than she normally would — it’s not a _date_ , of course, but it is the first time her future husband will see her since the day he was on trial for Azkaban. 

Hermione also desperately wants the comfort of her favourite sweater.

With mostly cooperating hair curling around her shoulders, Hermione digs out a few bills of muggle money from her hidden away safe and locks up her cottage. 

She apparates near Russell Square and allows herself the chance to meander through the crowds. It’s been ages since she’s been anywhere near muggles, and the chaos comes as a comfort in a small way. It reminds her of days long gone past, her father’s booming laughter, and her mother’s perfume.

She ducks into a small bookshop and spends a few minutes perusing the selection, and when she glances down at her watch it is 4:58 PM. Hermione scrambles to purchase the book she had been looking at and dashes towards the coffee shop, arriving exactly six minutes late.

Draco Malfoy is already there, standing in the lineup to order. He’s wearing a dark charcoal coat and black pants, his white-blonde hair standing out even from the back. Hermione sucks in a wild breath and approaches him, half considering running away before he notices her.

He turns before she gets close to his back, silver eyes locking on her with the same intensity his owl had shown only that morning. 

“Granger,” he drawls, and Hermione is suddenly 14 again and ready for him to tear her down with every icy word. 

“Malfoy.”

Draco lifts a blonde eyebrow, “Want a coffee? I’m partial to the vanilla lattes myself.”

Hermione nods, “Umm, sure. That sounds good. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I see you found a bookstore, so I’m unsurprised,” Malfoy gestures at her bag, stamped with the shop’s logo, “you always did love books.”

Hermione frowns; his words come too close to sarcasm, and she is _tired_ of constantly being mocked for liking to learn. Reading has saved her life on more than one occasion — in fact, she has _literally_ saved the entire wizarding world. She’s not ashamed of being smart. 

A cutting remark is on the tip of her tongue, but Malfoy turns away from her to order two vanilla lattes, and when he turns back he says, “It’s not bad, you know.”

“What?” 

Malfoy gestures at her bag, where the cover of the book she has purchased is sticking out. “That book. I rarely go for wizard fiction, but the characters are likable and the author’s description of the intricacies of Centaur society was interesting.” 

Hermione stammers for an answer but is once more saved when Draco Malfoy pulls out a chair for her at a small table by a window. He sits across from the chair he had graciously offered her, and Hermione tries to reconcile the absolutely _horrid child_ Draco had been with this courteous and polite man. This man who is apparently wanting to _discuss literature_ with her.

“I’ll read it and get back to you,” she finally says, “I’ve heard good things.”

Malfoy nods and stares out the window for a long moment, the silence falling somewhere between introspective and awkward. She takes the time to study him; the way small white scars speckle his knuckles on both hands, and the knee she can feel bouncing under the table. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was nervous.

“Granger, I didn’t write my own name on the warning I penned you because I never imagined we’d be found _compatible_ ,” he sneers the word, “but just so you know, I’m not like them.” 

Hermione narrows her eyes on him, taking in his words. His tone seems sincere, although he’d practically spat the word compatible. She supposes it’s a hard pill to swallow to discover your most hated classmate is your ‘perfect’ match. Admittedly, she’s having some trouble with the thought herself.

“Not like them?” Hermione asks, scathing, “Do you mean that you won’t hunt me for sport? Won’t chain me in a dungeon - a _mudblood wife_ that you are ashamed of? Won’t watch as I am tortured on your floor, screaming for help?”

It’s a low blow, and Malfoy recoils as though she has struck him. Hermione takes no pleasure in her victory — words she has said in haste and fear. She had been planning to be civil, to _try_.

“I’m sorry — I shouldn’t,” she says, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Silence reigns at their small table and Malfoy’s stone-faced expression doesn’t crumble. Hermione thinks about apologizing again for her venomous words, but she’s tired of saying sorry for the truth. 

“I suppose it was a fair statement,” Malfoy sits back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. It draws her eyes to his shoulders, broader than they had been only two years ago. 

“It wasn’t,” Hermione admits, “I appreciated your apology and your warning. I also realize you’re trying to be civil. I’m just — I’m just _scared_.” 

He stares at her, shock warring with his icy demeanour. “You Gryffindors. Always so blunt. Always saying what you feel.”

Hermione shrugs, “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am, Malfoy.”

He sips his latte and stares her down, and Hermione forces her fingers to stop trembling long enough to pick up her cup, sipping the drink he has paid for. It’s warm, and Hermione is grateful for its comfort and sweetness.

“Look,” Malfoy’s voice is soft, “I realize we aren’t friends.”

“Understatement,” Hermione snorts.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Yes, okay. We’ve hated each other our entire lives and now we are being forced to marry.”

Hermione swallows, “I’m just shocked the ministry would allow the Malfoy line to marry a muggle-born.”

“The Malfoy line has nearly no sway with the Ministry any longer,” Draco says, “and if they had inquired, I would have told them my wife’s blood status meant little to me.”

It’s the second time he has alluded to his changed perspective on blood purity. The second time he has tried to distance himself from all the horrors of the war, and his role in it. Hermione can hardly begrudge him the opportunity to change.

“That’s probably good, considering I’m to be your wife.” She jokes, her humour falling flat between them. They sip at their lattes, watching each other over the rims of their cups in the wake of her words.

“Tell me,” he says, breaking their silence, “were you still dating Weasel when the WPG was announced?”

Hermione snorts a laugh, “His name is Ron Weasley, not weasel. And no, Ron and I ended not long after the war. We’re still good friends, though.”

“Great,” Malfoy mutters sarcastically, “suppose that means I’ll have to see him around.”

Hermione smirks at his obvious misery, “If we’re to marry, yes, you will. Were you dating anyone? When the WPG was announced, I mean.”

Malfoy waves her question away, “No. Tell me, how did your golden group fair in the lottery? Potter pull a new name?”

Hermione smiles, genuinely, “Harry got Ginny. They’re thrilled.”

“Pity,” Malfoy drawls, but Hermione swears he’s saying it only out of habit and not malice. There’s no heat behind the word.

“Percy Weasley got Daphne Greengrass. You know the Greengrass family, don’t you?”

“Oh, god,” Malfoy lets out a chuckle, “my condolences to Percy Weasley. Daph’s great, but she makes Professor Binns look positively enthralling.”

Hermione snorts, “Actually, that might work out. Percy’s a dear friend, but he’s not exactly… well… he’s boring as dirt.”

“A match made in Ministry heaven.” Malfoy’s voice is pure scathing scorn, and for the first time, Hermione doesn’t flinch at his sneer. She doesn’t mind his humour when it’s not directed at her. 

“Yeah. His eldest brother Charlie got Astoria Greengrass, actually. They’ll marry the sisters.”

Malfoy frowns, “Hmm, the Greengrass family is a staunch pureblood family. Their father will not accept those matches to blood traitors.”

Hermione snarls, “Weasley’s are _pureblood_!”

“The Greengrass family is older than even the Malfoy’s, and their father might have accepted one match to the Weasley family, but both daughters? He’ll be at the ministry as we speak.” Malfoy replies, “It doesn’t matter if the Weasley’s are technically pureblood, he believes they’re _blood traitors_.”

Hermione desperately wants to pick at the comment, tear it apart. Malfoy looks spooked, his knuckles white against his coffee cup. It hasn’t escaped her notice that Malfoy had purposefully not spoken against the Weasley’s status, just relayed the Greengrass patriarch’s opinion. So Hermione bites her tongue, wondering how long she can silence herself in this sham of a marriage before she explodes. 

“So you know them well?” She chokes out, letting the subject change. 

“I know Daphne alright,” he explains, relief washing over his face, “she was in my year in Slytherin, after all. I was actually betrothed to Astoria for many years — our parents arranged it. After the war, the betrothal fell apart, mostly because my father was… not there to sign the final contracts.” 

Hermione’s brain swims with the information, “I — I’m sorry. Did you… did you love her?”

“Love her?” Malfoy scoffs, “I hardly knew her. She was simply an appropriate wife in my father’s eyes.”

“An _appropriate_ wife,” Hermione swallows, “I suppose I don’t fit that description.”

Malfoy’s laughter is unexpected, “Oh, Granger. Sorry, but no. My father is rolling in his grave as we speak.”

“Good,” Hermione snaps, vicious. “I’m not sorry for that.”

He eyes her battle-ready expression, a lazy half-smile flitting about his lips, “I didn’t ask you to be.” 

Hermione scowls, his words are unexpected. She had hardly imagined a scenario where Draco would spit in the face of his father’s ideals. It’s a welcome thought, but it doesn’t align with the boy she thought she knew. 

She gives herself a small shake and focuses, leaving Draco’s comment along for now. 

“I hope Astoria and Charlie get on well, though,” Hermione insists, “Charlie is nervous because he’s so much older than her.”

“His age will hardly be the thing her family will protest,” Malfoy mutters darkly, sipping at his drink. Hermione is almost finished hers, and she’s shocked that she’s tempted to get another to prolong this meeting.

“Do you know Padma Patil?” Malfoy asks, changing the subject. “My mate Blaise Zabini got her.”

“She’s nice. I know her sister Parvati quite well, she was my roommate in Gryffindor for years, but Padma was in Ravenclaw. Blaise might be interested to know that he’ll have a Weasley as a brother-in-law. George got Parvati.”

“Blaise’ll have a meltdown over that, I’m sure,” Malfoy’s eyes are sparkling with humour, “but at least he got the good Weasley. George — that’s one of the twins, right? They were legendary, even in Slytherin.”

Hermione’s face must ripple in shock; no one has mentioned Fred in so long it hits her like a slap. She swallows hard — it hadn’t even occurred to her that Parvati is a twin, and she paired with George. Perhaps it will be a suitable match — something in common. 

Or perhaps George will have to watch his wife and her twin, all the while his twin is _gone_.

“Is he dead?” 

Hermione blinks herself into focus, staring at Malfoy’s artfully mussed blonde hair. “What?”

“The way you reacted,” he says, “did the other twin die?”

Hermione nods through the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

He waits patiently while she gets herself under control, and when she no longer feels like screaming, he clears his throat.

“Luna Lovegood.”

“What?” Hermione is lost again, “What about Luna?”

Malfoy scowls at the table, “I don’t know her. In school… well… perhaps we were mean. She was always so _weird_.”

Hermione bristles. “Mean?! She spent months in your _dungeon_ as a prisoner, and you call it _being_ _mean?_ ”

Hermione can feel her thighs shaking, memories of a chandelier hanging above her, maniacal laughter and screaming in her ears. She can picture the only time she and Luna had ever even talked about the Manor, laying face to face in Shell Cottage, the first and only time Hermione had ever seen Luna cry. 

Malfoy’s expression is bleak. “I didn’t… go into those rooms. I never spoke with her. I only… I only remember her from school.”

Hermione watches his grey eyes bore holes in their table, signature sneer on his face, and sucks in a breath. She’s so tired of all the damage the war continues to cause. She’s so tired of being angry. She wonders if Malfoy’s tired of it, too.

“Luna _is_ odd,” Hermione breathes, fear and fury roiling through her. It is Luna — the memory of how forgiving Luna is, how she has tried so hard to be _more_ than the sum of the war, that prompts Hermione to share. “She loves radishes and made-up creatures and the colour blue. She’s smart, though — smarter than half the people I know. She’s vicious in a wand fight, and curious about the world, and she paints these beautiful pictures… you can’t even imagine how beautiful.” 

Hermione is lost for a moment, briefly recalling the day she had first seen Luna’s room in the height of the war, golden lettering labelling them all as _friends_ on her wall. Luna is… the best of all of them.

Malfoy drags her from her thoughts, “well, my best friend pulled her name.”

For one horrible, _horrible_ moment, Hermione imagines Malfoy is talking about Vincent Crabbe. She pictures Luna — her free spirit and laughter, and sees it as though it’s a prophecy in her brain. Slowly, Crabbe’s meaty fists and cruel words would chip away at everything that made Luna unique, until all that remained was a pretty shell.

“Granger,” Malfoy snaps, “focus.”

Hermione chokes, “no, please Malfoy, she can’t. She can’t! Crabbe will _destroy_ her.”

“It’s not Crabbe,” Malfoy growls, “I don’t even see Crabbe. It’s Theo. My best friend is Theodore Nott.”

Hermione sucks in air, “Nott was a Death Eater.”

For the first time Malfoy’s face mottles in rage, and his voice, when it comes, snaps across her like a whip. “Theo _wasn’t_ death eater. He isn’t his father.” 

“Okay,” Hermione holds her hands up in surrender, “okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”

Malfoy scowls, thunder and fury, “No, you don’t.”

They stare at each other, poison on the tips of their tongues. Hermione realizes that this moment will be the deciding factor — how much can a Malfoy change?

He heaves a breath and the anger fades from his eyes. Hermione realizes he looks more like his mother than he does of Lucius. It’s a blessing for both of them. 

“Listen, Granger. I don’t care if she’s weird or what. He probably won’t even care either. Just… tell me… tell me she won’t hate him. Tell me she will see more than his name.”

Hermione can’t help that she rocks backwards in her chair in surprise at his demanded question. Malfoy isn’t looking at her anymore, his eyes trained out the window. Still, he looks vulnerable in a way she hasn’t seen since the fifth year when she had watched him slowly fall apart from afar. 

She wonders if he feels the same way as Theodore Nott obviously does: pigeonholed and judged by a name and persona his father created.

Hermione nods slowly. “Luna Lovegood is the kindest person I know. She won’t care what last name Theodore carries.”

He huffs, dragging his eyes back to her, “well, at least there’s that. Theo’s had enough shit, he deserves someone nice.”

Hermione watches him from under her lashes; he is fiddling with his cup, his expression shuttered. All the vulnerability that she had seen is gone again, and Hermione wonders if she had imagined the whole thing. She never would have guessed that Draco Malfoy would be someone who cared about his friends. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Hermione blinks at him, “um. Sure?”

“Why didn’t you try to get your name changed? Why didn’t you beg Shacklebolt for whoever you wanted — the Weasel, even? You’re the _golden girl_ , he owes it to you.” 

The way he says ‘ _golden girl_ ’ is snide, and Hermione frowns. “There’s nothing he could have done. His hands were tied. He would have received his own name yesterday; even Kingsley wasn’t exempt.”

Malfoy shakes his head, “Granger, don’t be a fool, it doesn’t suit you.”

“What does that mean?” Hermione snaps.

“It means,” Malfoy sneers, “that you are _supposed_ to be the brightest witch of your age. Don’t you think it’s just a little suspect that the Ministry has placed the wizarding world’s most famous and beloved muggle-born into a marriage with not only a well-known ex-Death eater but also one of the most staunchly blood prejudiced wizarding families?”

“Not really,” Hermione snaps, “I don’t think they care. I don’t think it’s some sinister plot, Malfoy.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Malfoy tells her, matter-of-fact. “The ministry doesn’t do anything without a purpose.”

“I believe they say the purpose is to increase the magical population,” Hermione says flatly, “I disagree with their methods and this stupid WPG Act, _obviously_ , but it stands to reason that if you force people to get married and conceive children you will in fact increase the population. It’s barking mad and barbaric, but here we are.”

Malfoy lifts a hand and rubs at his chin, “I truly doubt that’s the only reason we’re suddenly all being manipulated like lab rats, Granger.” 

“Honestly, I really think they just didn’t take any of our histories into account. We’re not the only insane match. Did you know Ron got Hannah Abbott? She’s wonderful, but she’s been dating Neville Longbottom for almost two years. The Ministry doesn’t care about anything except rebuilding the population.”

“The Ministry,” Malfoy murmurs darkly, “doesn’t care about anything except power, and it never has.”

Hermione doesn’t have it in her to disagree again, especially when all evidence proves he is correct. 

Malfoy reaches into his coat at her silence, drawing out a small box. He slides it across the table to her. Hermione stares at it as though it is a bomb meant to explode in her face. 

“Granger, it’s customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift,” he taps the velvet box gently, “I know this is hardly a traditional engagement, but I… I feel I should still follow my customs.”

Hermione stares first at Draco Malfoy’s face, searching for any sign of mockery or danger. Then, slowly, she reaches out and grabs the black box. “You really didn’t need to get me a gift. I know you don’t — I know it’s not… real.”

Her words, though not a lie, are also not true. They don’t love each other — they don’t even like each other. Still… it is _real_. They will be married within the month.

“I know that.” Malfoy snaps, then sighs once. “It’s yours, though.”

Hermione frowns at him, “I didn’t get you anything.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Bloody hell, Granger, _open_ the damn thing.”

Hermione dubiously opens the box, expecting some hideous prize with a deeper mocking meaning, and finding only a simple bracelet. The stones are a deep azure on a delicate silver vine. It’s tasteful and lovely, clearly Goblin made and worth a fortune.

“This is too much,” Hermione insists at once, “it’s beautiful. I shouldn’t… it’s yours — ”

Malfoy waves her stumbling words away, “It holds some magical properties. I had it inspected for dangerous curses when I pulled it from my vault, and they informed me that it has been charmed. If you are ever in danger, you can simply touch it and call for me in your mind. I will apparate to you — no matter if I’ve never been in the location before. It will be like a beacon for me, apparently.”

Hermione frowns suspiciously, “Can you tell my location by it?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “I hardly think you’d accept such an invasion of privacy, and I definitely have no desire to keep tabs on you.”

Hermione bites back a smile — not only is the delicate bracelet beautiful, she knows such an object would have been priceless in the war. Yet, it had been sitting in the Malfoy vault, unused all this time. “This is incredible. Does it do anything else?”

Malfoy shrugs, “The inspector said besides the apparition beacon it holds no other magic, but my mother did once tell me a legend that this bracelet would allow the wearer great protections. Probably not true, as she never wore it.”

“Not quite her style?” Hermione asks hesitantly.

To her great surprise, Malfoy chuckles. “Definitely not flashy enough.”

“It’s very lovely, though,” Hermione insists. Realistically, she knows that Draco Malfoy could have clothed her in diamonds and not flinched at the cost, so she supposes the bracelet is hardly anything to gawk at, but it was only a few short years ago that Malfoy would’ve rather seen her dead before he put a family heirloom in her possession. 

Malfoy watches her holding the box, and Hermione knows he is waiting to see if she’ll throw it back in his face or accept it. She glances down at the bracelet and decides. 

The Ministry may have taken her choices from her, but that doesn’t mean she can’t approach this in her own way. She pulls the bracelet out of the box carefully and then holds out her wrist to Malfoy. It feels very similar to laying her head upon a guillotine.

“Will you put it on me?” She asks. He stares at her extended wrist as though it is a viper unexpectedly ready to tear him apart at any moment. She’s about to withdraw when he catches her fingers.

His hands are softer than she would have expected, and he lays the bracelet carefully over her skin. He fastens it gently, then pulls her sleeve over it. Hermione realizes as it’s happening that this is the first time Draco Malfoy has ever willingly touched her. The last time she had felt his pale skin was when she had punched him in the third year at Hogwarts.

“Thank you,” she mutters, feeling her cheeks turn a burning scarlet.

He nods, “I have to go.”

Hermione blinks at his abrupt announcement, “Oh, um, of course.”

Malfoy takes her cup to the garbage, and Hermione gathers her beaded bag beside her. He unexpectedly waits for her, and they walk outside together. He gestures down a small abandoned alleyway and only pauses once they are hidden behind a dumpster.

“This is a suitable spot to apparate,” Malfoy mutters.

Hermione nods, “Makes sense. Okay. Well… shall I owl you?”

The silence stretches, and Hermione snaps her gaze to Malfoy to make sure he hasn’t somehow silently apparated away. He’s still there, but he’s staring at her with steel-grey eyes and far closer than she expects. She barely comes to a stop in time without crashing into him.

“You said you were scared.” Malfoy’s voice is low.

“Yes,” Hermione answers, “I just — aren’t _you_ scared?”

He reaches out, startling her with the sudden move, and Hermione prepares to flee or fight, tensing. Instead of attacking, he lays a single finger on the bracelet, just peeking out past her sweater.

“Don’t be scared,” he commands, then withdraws his fingers.

His apparition crack sends her careening into the alleyway wall, clutching at her wand so hard she fears she could break it, a spell for mass destruction on the tip of her tongue. The space where Malfoy once stood is empty. Her wrist still tingles. She takes more time than she’d like to admit standing up straight again, forcing her legs to stop shaking before she apparates home. 


	5. Theo's Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you again for the comments and kudos :) This week I will be posting two chapters due to the fact that both of them are shorter. Expect the next Thursday! Enjoy our first peek at Theo through Draco's POV.

* * *

_October 23rd, 1999 - Saturday Late Night_

* * *

_‘Aren’t you scared?’_

Granger’s words echo in his brain the entire way to Nott manor. There is only one light on in the East Wing when Draco lands on the front steps, and he doesn’t hesitate when he walks through the front door.

His fingertips seem to still tingle from where he had attached the bracelet he had brought for Granger. 

‘ _Aren’t you scared?’_

Draco slams open the door to Theo’s study, finding his friend at his desk, staring down at a stack of parchments. Despite the obnoxious entrance, Theo doesn’t even flinch. His house-elf must have warned him Draco had appeared.

“Draco,” Theo greets evenly, gesturing mildly to the liquor cabinet beside the fireplace.

Although Draco would like nothing more than a firewhiskey, he instead begins pacing. He only makes it three laps before Theodore Nott rolls his eyes and glances up.

“Sit down, you miserable bastard,” Theo commands, waving his arm to summon the armchair from the corner. “Tell me what’s got your wand in a wad. What’s wrong?”

Draco sits on the chair angrily, plopping down in a way that would have made his mother wince, “Hermione Granger is what is _wrong_.”

Theo’s jaw clenches, his green eyes pained. “C’mon, mate, don’t do this. Not anymore.”

“No!” Draco snaps, surprise colouring his tone. “Not like that. She’s just… impossible.”

“You _met up with her_?” Theo’s voice hovers between hysterical and concerned.

Draco breathes deeply, calming himself. “Yes. We went for coffee. I just left her to come straight here.”

“You… left her… alive?” Theo asks.

Draco jumps to his feet, “What is _that_ supposed to mean? I didn’t fucking _kill her_ , Nott.”

Theo laughs, “I’m _joking_. God, you’re impossible. I know you didn’t kill her. I’m more shocked she didn’t kill you, to be honest. How did it go?”

Draco slowly finds his seat again, letting his blood settle over Theo’s words. Despite knowing he had no intention of killing Granger, the image of her body, prone and broken on marble flooring, had flashed through his mind. Not him; he wouldn’t hurt her, not now, and probably not even back then, but he had _watched_. Stood there and did _nothing_. 

Just as bad.

“It went… fine.” 

“Fine.” Theo repeats, nonplussed. “You met up with Hermione Granger, the literal golden girl. Harry Potter’s best friend. The girl you were an utter arse to for years, that you are supposed to _marry_ in less than a month, and you say it went _fine?!_ ”

Draco scowls. “What do you want me to say, Theo? It went… surprisingly well. We didn’t kill each other. We had a civil conversation.”

“What did you talk about?”

“The matches, mostly,” Draco admits, “I wanted to know who her friends got.”

Theo leans forward eagerly, “Tell me Potter got someone hilarious. Like — like — Millicent or something.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “No, he got the She-Weasel.. the one he’s been dating since… Merlin, fourth year or something?”

“Boring,” Theodore announces, “what about Weasley?”

Draco laughs humourlessly, “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to be more specific. Granger is surrounded by Weasleys. If you’re meaning Potter’s sidekick he got that Hannah Abbott girl. Don’t know her.”

Theo slouches back into his chair. “All boring. Don’t you have _anything_ fun to tell me?”

Draco smirks, “Both Greengrass sisters were matched with Weasley brothers.”

Silence reigns for a moment. Theodore Nott stands slowly and makes his way to his firewhiskey.

“Merlin,” he breathes, “you should have led with that.”

He pours two generous glasses, setting one into Draco’s waiting hand. They don’t speak for a moment as he collapses back into his leather chair and takes a sip. Draco watches him wince as the burn hits his throat. 

“‘Stori must ready to lose her mind,” Draco muses, “I think Daph will accept it, but Astoria has always… aspired to be everything her father wishes.”

Nott’s expression grows dark. “Unfortunately, Daphne is the eldest. If anything, he’ll argue to let ‘Stori stay with her match and free Daphne.”

Draco shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. Neither he nor Theo are close with the Greengrass sisters, but they aren't fools. They are lucky enough that their fathers are dead in the ground — Astoria and Daphne’s father lives.

“Not a bad day to be an orphan, huh?” Theo’s glib tone drags Draco out of his thoughts.

Draco laughs, missing his mother fiercely for a moment, “I suppose it’s not. Tell me, did you meet with Lovegood today?”

Theo goes silent and still, and sets his cup down on his mahogany desk. His face is an emotionless mask, and Draco watches as Theo calculates exactly what to share about his meeting with Lovegood today — Draco doesn’t blame him. They’re Slytherins. He’d done exactly the same thing when asked about Granger.

“It was good,” Theo starts, “she was… different from what I expected.”

“I warned you she’s as mad as a hatter, mate.”

Theo’s anger is instant, washing across his face and disappearing in the next breath. Draco would have missed it, only he’d been watching for it. Waiting for it.

“Bloody hell,” Draco mutters, “you _like_ her.”

Theo protests, “No. No, she just… she was… nice?”

He says it suspiciously. Draco narrows his eyes — he remembers thinking the same thing only an hour prior. He’d always remembered Granger as this towering monstrosity of clever quips, bushy hair, and nasty comebacks.

“ _Aren’t you scared?”_ Her words taunt him.

And, though her hair had been just as wild as he remembered around her head, she had sat down and proceeded to be… kind.

Draco almost wishes she had been cruel. He was good with cruel — he was _used_ to it, and he knew exactly how to turn it around and strike back.

“Granger said,” Draco swallows, “she said Lovegood was nice. That she would talk to you.”

Theo brightens a bit. “Yeah. She was… wearing these ridiculous pink glasses, and insisted that Nott Manor was the perfect location to explore for Nargles, whatever those are. She searched all over the gardens, and the entire time she just… talked. About… nothing, really.”

“So you just followed around a rambling, crazy woman and thought she was nice?” Draco laughs. 

Theo grins, gulping down some more firewhiskey before setting his glass heavily on his desk. “Sod off, mate. She wasn’t really rambling. She just… never really brought up anything I hated, you know?. Just… asked me about my favourite colour, and why I liked summer, and where my mother was.”

“What — what did you say?” Draco asks hesitantly. He hasn’t heard Theo talk about his mother since they were boys of 9 and she had mysteriously died. Draco still bears a scar on his eyebrow from the last time he had tried to bring her up, and Theo had chosen to answer him with his fists.

Theo frowns, silent. Draco sips his firewhiskey slowly and lets his friend find his words. 

“I told her she died,” Theo starts, “but… then I just… I told her all sorts of other things. Things I thought I had forgotten. Did you know my mother’s middle name was Lunetta?”

Draco stares, “No… I didn’t.” The only thing he knows about Theo’s mother is that she had long auburn hair, an affinity for painting, and that Theo’s father had killed her. Or so people said. Nothing was ever proven, of course.

Theo sighs, “I think maybe Luna’s name reminded me of it. Anyway, I told her about how she loved butterbeer and crepes and sunflowers, and I didn’t even know I _remembered_ those things about my mother until I said them to her.”

“Theo…” Draco says, words failing on the tip of his tongue. He’s never been good with words — a cutting remark comes to him as easily as the recipe for first-year potions, but anything else… when it matters? Words have always failed him.

“I know,” Theo says solemnly, “I know. The problem is, your witch is going to solve the WPG and free us all, right? And I can’t _keep_ Luna; she’s not mine.”

Draco reels for a moment — there are so many things to unpack in that statement. _His witch_ — Hermione Granger would be his _wife_. 

Theo isn’t wrong — Draco can’t imagine a world where Granger would sit idly by and let injustice stand. Can’t imagine her letting the Wizarding Population Growth Act trap her friends and herself into a marriage — she would fight. He couldn’t even blame her for it. 

And Theodore Nott — well, he had already admitted it, hadn’t he?

A single day into knowing her and Theo was already scared to lose Luna Lovegood. Something good. Something kind.

‘ _Aren’t you scared?’_ Her words mock him.

Draco reaches for the bottle and tops up their glasses, not saying a single word when Theodore slams his entire cup back easily.

“You know,” Draco mutters, “she asked me… she asked me if I was scared.”

Theo settles bright green eyes on him, curiosity lighting up, “Hermione Granger asked you if you were _scared_?”

Draco nods, “Yes. But not before admitting that she was scared.”

“Ouch.” Theo says, “Bloody Gryffindors, huh.”

Draco doesn’t answer, and Theo doesn’t ask — they’re Slytherin through and through, and admitting fear or weakness isn’t something they are equipped to do.

He clears his throat. “I’m glad Lovegood’s nice.” 

“Yeah,” Theo sighs, “I am, too. She’s getting a poor deal, marrying me.”

Draco stares into the amber liquid in his glass, watching it splash up the sides as he turns it slowly. Theo — Theo has been his best friend for years, and he is _good_. Good in a way few people are, anymore. But he’s still not wrong. He’s not stupid.

“She’ll be lucky to have you,” Draco tells him. It’s not a lie, not really. She is lucky; Theo will be kind to her.

Still, Theo laughs. Drinks his whiskey. Stares out his dark window. 

“She’ll be a Nott,” he finally mutters, “which is the opposite of lucky.”

“Better than a Malfoy,” Draco replies.

Theo doesn’t answer, but the truth hangs between them. Despite being forced into the marriage, the world will see Luna Lovegood as nothing more than a Death Eater’s wife.

Hermione Granger will have it even worse.

“ _Aren’t you scared?”_

Draco slams his cup down, and this time Theo jumps, startled. He doesn’t speak, just watches him; his green eyes, reminiscent of stupid Potter’s, are sad. He knows the thoughts running through Draco’s head without him saying anything.

“ _Aren’t you scared?”_

_All the time, yes._


	6. Letter to Luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter today! Sorry for being a day late. BUT Nano starts this weekend so I'll be writing up a storm. Expect another update Monday :)

* * *

_October 24th, 1999 - Sunday Early Morning_

* * *

Unlike the Saturday the day before, Hermione leaps out of bed fully awake at 7AM. She spends the next two hours cleaning her house with small charms Molly Weasley had taught her, reorganizing her ever-growing bookshelf, and penning a letter to Ron and Harry to invite them out to the Leaky Cauldron after work the following day.

She doesn’t own an owl, but it’s no hardship to throw on her robes and apparate to the doorstep of Grimmauld place. It’s dark in the windows, and no one answers her knock, so Hermione calls for Ginny’s owl from the front step. 

Julien is a massive barn owl that Harry had purchased for Ginny’s birthday following the war. She’s lovely and partial to Hermione, so she lands easily on her arm and nudges her majestic head into Hermione’s wild curls.

“Hello Julien,” Hermione greets, petting her softly, “I am hoping you could take this letter to Ron at the Burrow for me. I imagine Harry is with him, anyway.”

Julien nips her fingers affectionately, allowing Hermione to tie the letter to her massive talons. She’s off without a moment to spare, and Hermione returns home easily.

Another owl greets her on her front step, familiar orange eyes gleaming. 

Hermione sighs, “brilliant. Come on in, then.”

The owl follows her gracefully, finding its perch on the windowsill where it had sat only the day prior. It has an envelope tucked against its legs, and Hermione unwinds it easily, Malfoy’s writing becoming a familiar scrawl to her.

_‘_ _To Granger,_

_I realized I didn’t reply to you yesterday when you asked if you should owl. I apparated before I could answer, and Theodore Nott has informed me that was rude. You are, of course, allowed to owl me._

_Theo — I had mentioned he is a friend — is doing well. I visited him last night after I saw you. He’s shocked we didn’t murder each other instantly, by the way. I told him you probably weren’t the type to commit murder without a six-step plan in place before you began. I somehow doubt Potter would have survived all these years if you didn’t over plan._

_Anyway, Theo said he met with Luna Lovegood yesterday morning, and though he told me how she apparently wore these mad pink glasses to allow her to see… what was it she said… Nargles? Daft bint, honestly, but — and don’t get yourself worked up — Theo has told me they’ll get along. I knew you’d be pleased to hear it._

_What are you doing Tuesday evening? If you are free, we could meet for dinner to further… plan. You may choose the place, though it would be easier to go to Muggle London if that’s acceptable to you. Word of our impending nuptials will send the Prophet into a tailspin, and I’d like to avoid that media frenzy for now._

_Regards,_

_Mr. Draco Malfoy’_

Hermione grins at his words and schools her face into an expression far less obnoxious. She had never imagined growing up that Draco Malfoy would be _funny_. Their classmates had certainly thought he was; however, usually, his brand of humour had been cruelly aimed at her, so she’s never had the chance to enjoy it. 

It’s also easy to see he’s comfortable owling her — she wonders if that’s just how Malfoy is, or if he finds it easier to be civil if he doesn’t have to look at her face. Hermione can hardly blame him, as she almost feels the same way.

She summons a quill and parchment and plops down at her small kitchen table to return his missive. She stares for a moment at the silver bracelet she hadn’t removed — it’s just as lovely today as it was the night before, and Hermione can almost feel the weight of it on her wrist despite its delicacy.

_‘To Malfoy,_

_I’m so pleased to hear that Theo and Luna will get along. I hope they can at least be friends, as it will hopefully make the Ministry’s mandate less… awful._

_I would enjoy going to dinner on Tuesday. Muggle London is fine with me, though I haven’t been there often as of late and am not sure what restaurants they offer. I like Italian food - do you have a recommendation?_

_Let’s avoid the Prophet for as long as possible — forever if we can. Don’t suppose you can think of any headline or scandal that will make our marriage look less exciting? I swear Rita Skeeter would write an article claiming I had three other husbands and somehow still snared you with my wiles._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

_P.S: What is your Owl’s name? He is very well behaved. '_

She seals the letter with a ribbon and brings it over to Malfoy’s owl, who peeks at her from under his wing. He uncurls slowly and allows her to attach her parchment to his leg, before taking off in flight when she opens her kitchen window.

She wonders how far he must travel — if Malfoy still lives in Malfoy Manor.

Hermione feels dizzy and abruptly realizes she’s been standing at her kitchen sink clutching the edge as hard as she could for over ten minutes. Her fingers are white and her legs are shaking.

It seems so close now — the memory of the Manor. Fear blankets her, the vision of the ominous chandelier swinging above her, the sting of a cursed blade in her arm carving out her worst fears. She can recall the mad laughter and screaming of her own hoarse voice; the fire of the cruciatus curse in her veins.

The dread that had been missing when she had read Draco Malfoy’s name on the black parchment storms through her now. Harry had been right only two nights prior — she’ll die before she spends another moment a prisoner in Malfoy Manor.

Hermione forces herself to breathe slowly; watching out her window and letting her fingers slowly release from her countertop. Malfoy’s owl is no longer even a speck in the distance, and she forces herself to move on rubbery legs.

Staying busy is always preferable, so the rest of Hermione’s day is spent researching and reading books, which is a fairly typical Sunday for her. She receives a letter from Ron and Harry through Julien, where they confirm that they will meet her at the Leaky Caldron the following evening at 6 PM after work.

It isn’t until twilight is falling that Draco’s owl returns. He curls on her windowsill, hooting gently at her, and Hermione takes the chance to run her fingers gently over his head. Despite his ferocious looks, he nudges her hand and allows her to pet him.

_‘To Miss Granger,_

_My owl’s name is Taffy. He is as gentle as a lamb, though he was purchased to look intimidating. I’m… fond of him. Do you not have an owl for yourself?_

_Rita Skeeter is a plague amongst wizardkind. Even if she accused you of being a philandering witch with wiles, I wouldn’t believe a word — I’m convinced Weasel has twice the brain that she does, which is saying something…_ **_never_ ** _tell him I said that… I wouldn’t want him to think I’ve complimented him._

_How does it sound if you were to meet me outside of the same coffee shop from yesterday, Java Corner, on Tuesday at 5:30? There is a little Italian restaurant just a short block away. We could walk together._

_Did you finish the book you bought yesterday? I’m curious to hear your thoughts on it. I’ve been reading the newest Rolf Scamander book — beasts and creatures never were a particular passion of mine, but he writes well. I’ll loan it to you if you haven’t already read it._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy’_

Hermione realizes belatedly that Taffy the owl has disappeared from her windowsill without a response from her. She’s spent so long curled in her chair, staring at Malfoy’s words that she forgot to keep the owl around. She’ll have to borrow a ministry owl at work again tomorrow to pen Malfoy a response — she can hardly wait to inform him that yes, she _had_ finished the book she had purchased yesterday, and it was dreadful! Though the writing was acceptable, Hermione had been positively affronted at the author’s portrayal of Centaur society — and Malfoy had said it was _interesting_! How she yearned to see his face when she informed him it was absolute garbage.

Perhaps she would hold off on that conversation until Tuesday evening when she saw him in person. Though, she truly would like to borrow the Rolf Scamander book he had mentioned, so she thought she’d better send a response all the same. 

Hermione summons extra parchment — she will respond to Draco in the morning, but right now she’s interested in writing Luna a letter. It’s been far too long since they had all gotten together or spoken, and after hearing Malfoy recount Luna and Theodore Nott’s meeting, Hermione is worried and, admittedly, curious. 

_‘Dearest Luna,_

_I’m sorry it has been so long since I have written you. I read your article in the Quibbler last week about Nigglypuffs — it was very well written. I must discuss them further with you the next time we see each other, as I’m still a bit lost as to where to find them. I hope that perhaps next weekend we could get together — I’ll try to get Ron, Harry, and Ginny in on it so we can make it a party._

_I have heard that you and Theodore Nott got paired together in the WPG act. If you are wondering who spilled the beans to me, please don’t worry — it’s not a common rumour. Please don’t tell anyone yet, but I’ve been paired with Draco Malfoy. He and Theodore are apparently close friends, and so Malfoy informed me of your impending nuptials. I will offer congratulations — though I confess, if you are at all like me, you are furious that we must bow to this law no matter who the man is._

_Luna — I must be very blunt. I hope that you are doing well. I hope that Theodore Nott is an honourable and lovely man; however, if for any reason at all you have need of me, or you want somewhere safe to stay, you know how to get in touch._

_Your friend,_

_Hermione Granger’_

She rolls the parchment and ties a ribbon on it, setting it alongside her work bag for the following morning. Hermione prepares herself for bed, checking all the wards around her house and casting extra fortification wherever needed. She takes a moment before entering her bed to pull the familiar gold coin from her nightstand. It’s worn in all familiar places, and Hermione squeezes it tightly, remembering her words to Luna. The charmed Galleon sits in the bedside tables of many old DA Members, and though Hermione is grateful it hasn’t grown warm with secret messages in over a year, she’s ready to respond or use it if need be.

She slides under her sheets, exhausted. Despite her tired and heavy eyes, she picks up the book she had been studying regarding Wizarding Population Statistics and reads from where she left off, letting the words and numbers consume her.


	7. The Leaky Cauldron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who is commenting and kudos-ing, I really appreciate it :) Also so happy you love soft Theo and the letters between HG and DM! I've been going pretty hard on Nano so I may have another chapter for you by Friday. For now, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

_October 25th, 1999 - Monday_

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron is full when she arrives, with Madame Rosmerta manning the bar. A melancholy air that Hermione hasn’t felt since the month after the war seems to soak in everywhere. She recognizes a few faces from work and her Hogwarts days, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the table off to the back right of the bar.

Sure enough, Harry and Ron are sitting there, squabbling with each other over some quidditch matter, and despite the depressing events that have occurred over the previous week, Hermione’s spirits lift at the sight of their dear faces.

She slides in next to Ron and elbows him, mid-sentence. He closes his jaw with a snap and turns to her, a goofy grin spreading across his face.

“Hey Moine,” he greets, “thanks for inviting us out. It’s been ages.”

Hermione laughs, “I saw you just a few days ago, Ron.”

Harry scoffs from across the table, “You know what he means, it’s hardly been just the three of us in forever.”

Hermione nods, giving in easily, “It’s true, it has been a while. So tell me everything. I know you have both have been thinking about the WPG Act.”

Harry nods with a small smile, “Yeah. Hermione, I know this is not exactly the way I would have imagined marrying Ginny, but I can’t say I’m unhappy about it. We’re having a ceremony at the Burrow on November 6th, just two Saturdays from now. We want to keep it small; you know how the press will go if they catch wind of my wedding.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Hermione nods, thinking how similar his words were to the ones she had written to Malfoy only the day prior. She fiddles lightly with the bracelet tucked under her cardigan’s sleeve. Harry reaches across the table suddenly and grabs her hand in his, folding it closed. It’s familiar, and Hermione smiles softly at the gesture.

“I’ve asked Ron to stand with me, and Ginny was hoping you would stand with her, Hermione. I’ve got no family other than you both, and nothing could ever mean more to me than you both being there. Ministry mandate be damned; this day is going to be full of happiness and bring my family together.”

Hermione chokes back a lump in her throat, desperate to speak but unable to find words. Ron, however, has always been good with plowing through emotional situations and he reaches out and smacks his hand on top of hers and Harry’s.

“Harry, mate, I’d say I speak for both of us when I tell you we would be honoured,” he says, “this is the only good thing to come out of this daft Ministry WPG move, and I for one can’t wait for you to officially be my brother.”

Hermione swallows hard, “Ron has it completely right, Harry. Nothing would make me happier than standing with you and Ginny.”

The moment lasts nearly an eternity in her mind; suspended in the wild cacophony of The Leaky Cauldron, her best friends in the entire world gripping her hand, the promise of forever and family branded on her skin.

“Harry,” she says, “do you think I could invite Malfoy?”

Ron’s head swings to her, his hand falling away with an incredulous expression. Hermione almost wants to take the words back, but she can hardly spend the next while avoiding the topic.

“I know… I know it’s ridiculous,” Hermione manages, “but you know that I have to marry him within the next thirty days. And it would be nice… it would be wonderful to still see my friends.”

Ron’s jaw clenches, but Harry nods decisively, “Hermione. You are welcome to bring anyone of your choosing to my wedding, but please promise me he will be polite. Ginny will _murder_ him from the alter if he says anything, and I’d rather have no death at my wedding if it’s all the same to you.”

Hermione chokes on a laugh at his words. Ron seethes, his voice like acid in the quiet of their booth, “bloody hell, Harry, are you _mad_?”

Harry half shrugs, “We have little choice, Ron. Malfoy will be Hermione’s husband, and like you just said, we’re family. She could marry a _literal_ ferret and I’d still have her stand with us, wouldn’t you?”

It’s a tense moment, but Ron heaves a sigh that Hermione feels in her bones, and rubs his forehead. “Moine, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I guess you should bring ferret boy along.”

Hermione beams at them, “Oh, thank you both. I promise he’ll behave, even if it means I have to hex him myself.”

Harry chuckles at her words and sips his butterbeer. “So, have you spoken to him yet?”

Hermione flops back against the wooden booth with a heavy breath, “I went for coffee with him only two nights ago. We’ve a date tomorrow evening.”

Ron’s eyes bug, “Blimey, and I’ve only owled Hannah _once_.”

Hermione smacks the arm closest to her, “ _Ronald Weasley_ , did I or did I not tell you to treat her nicely and actually _talk_ to her?”

Harry frowns, “She’s right, mate, that’s a bit not good.”

Ron grumbles, “I was _nice_. She answered me only this morning. I’ll remember to write again tonight. I suppose I should invite her out.”

“It’s worth doing,” Harry agrees, “I know you already know her as a friend, but it could be good to discuss your plans, and where you will go from here, you know?”

“It’s true, Ron,” Hermione chimes in, “you have to know if they want a big public wedding, or would rather an elopement, for starters. And it’s important to know where you’ll both live after you marry, and if she wants kids!”

“Why?” Ron snaps, “Doesn’t matter if we _want_ kids _,_ does it? We’ve got to have them. So do you, both of you. No choice, _remember?_ ”

Hermione snaps her jaw closed. Ron’s right, and she’s been avoiding thinking about it. The WPG states they have one year from the letter’s issue to conceive a child. That means that Hermione only has 362 days left. The bracelet seems to burn on her wrist, a beautiful but constant reminder that she is no longer _free_.

“It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” Harry says, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, both Ginny and I want kids. Eventually, though. Ginny was hoping for a few years on the Quidditch pitch before kids came along. Suppose it’s not meant to be.”

Ron heaves a sigh, “It’s definitely not how any of us planned it. On the bright side, I know that Hannah wants kids, and sooner rather than later.”

Harry whips his eyes to Ron. “What? How do you know that?”

Ron shrugs, “We talked about it once at a party. She mentioned how Neville was putting the brakes on, that he wanted to wait until later in life, and she was ready now.”

Harry frowns as though he can’t picture Ron ever involved in a conversation with Hannah about future children, but Ron’s eyes slide apologetically to Hermione for a moment, and she flushes. It’s all too easy to understand that this topic must have come up with Hannah near the end of Ron and Hermione’s ill-fated romance. Though they had plenty in common as friends, as a couple Ron had been ready to move on from the war, ready for marriage and kids, and Hermione had barely healed, and the thought of caring for one more person rubbed at her scars all the wrong ways. 

“That’s good, Ron,” Hermione manages, “you won’t have any trouble adhering to the timeline on conception then.”

Ron rubs the back of his neck and glances away. Harry breaks the awkward moment easily, “Hermione, tell us about your meet up with Malfoy. Did you discuss all the things you mentioned?”

Hermione scowls, “Not exactly. I was surprised to find out we have similar tastes in books, though.” 

Harry’s laugh breaks up her foul mood, “Oh, Hermione. Why am I not surprised that the one thing you did talk about was reading?”

Hermione straightens her chin, a small smile breaking through, “Well, it means we have at least _one_ thing in common, which frankly, was a shock to me. So that bodes well.”

“It’s not a bad thing, I suppose,” Ron agrees, “I guess it could be worse. Hannah informed me in her letter that Neville got _Pansy Parkinson_. Can you imagine marrying her? You’d have more in common with a bloody flobberworm.”

Harry cringes. Though he has often tried to be fair in his judgement of the Slytherin student's actions during the war, he has never forgiven Pansy Parkinson’s vitriol.

“Poor Neville,” Hermione sighs, “he’s so gentle. She’s going to eat him alive.”

Ron visibly cheers, “Actually, speaking of being eaten, apparently Charlie has owled Astoria Greengrass. He mentioned his work with dragons, and she did _not_ take it well. I think he’s secretly hoping she’ll visit and a Hungarian Horntail will solve his problem for him.”

Hermione laughs, “Ronald, that’s _terrible_. You don’t think they’ll get along, then?”

“Blimey, no. Astoria was well known in Hogwarts for being all beauty and no brains, and from what Charlie mentioned, that was on the mark. The thought of living in Romania was apparently ‘ _unacceptable’_ to a girl like her.”

Harry interjects, “Unfortunately, I agree with Ron on this, it seems like they won’t be a good fit.”

“What about Daphne? Did Percy owl her?”

Ron slaps the table, startling her, “Oh, my god, Mione — he did. It was _hilarious_. He sent her an owl with an entire timeline and conversational topics. He told her he wanted to create a ‘thoroughly detailed plan of action’for their marriage.”

Hermione cringes, “Oh no. Tell me she wasn’t awful to him.”

Harry interrupts, “That’s the thing — she _agreed_!”

“Can you believe that Greengrass loon sent back an even more prat-ish letter accepting his offer and providing — and I am quoting Percy here — _‘ constructive improvements on their action plan’_. I couldn’t even stand Percy’s summary of their letters; it was so dreadfully boring.” Ron is nearly gasping through his laughter as he recounts the tale.

Hermione giggles, “Honestly, Malfoy said to expect something like that. I had mentioned Percy’s match to Daphne, and he said she was nice but about as boring as watching pumpkins grow.”

Harry grins, “At least the Ministry might have gotten one thing right, then.”

“I also heard from Luna,” Hermione adds, “they matched her to Theodore Nott. Before you panic, turns out Theodore isn’t anything like his late father, and he’s no Death Eater. I don’t know anything else, but I invited her out this weekend, though she hasn’t answered yet. Would you both be available Sunday?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “it’s been a while since we’ve seen Luna.”

Ron grumbles, “Nott might not be a Death Eater, but I still don’t like it. How come none of the DA are landing Hufflepuffs or even Ravenclaws? So many Slytherins.”

Hermione frowns at Ron’s words, surprised she hadn’t considered the connection before. The Ministry has hardly been transparent about how they matched the couples, and though she had inquired around the office lightly, no one seemed to know what the process had been.

She wonders briefly if she’s been looking in all the wrong places, trying to find a way out of the marriage, a loophole. Perhaps she should dissect the _how_ and _why_ of the pairings. 

“Ron,” she murmurs, “sometimes you have flashes of bloody brilliance.”

Ron frowns, “What? What did I say?”

“Nothing yet! But I’ve got to get going,” Hermione gulps the last of her butterbeer, “I think you’ve given me a new avenue to research!”

Harry is only slightly quicker than Ron at connecting the dots, “You’re going to figure out why we got paired with who we did? Do you think you’ll be able to fight the WPG that way?”

Hermione heaves a sigh, “Honestly, I’ve no idea. I’ve been researching, but until McGonagall owls me the books Hogwarts has on previous wizarding population and marriage contracts between purebred families, I’ve got nothing to go on. It could be interesting to see how we were paired — I mean, what do I have in common with _Draco Malfoy_ of all people?”

Ron huffs, “Other than your love of books, I’d say nothing. And Hannah’s lovely — but why wouldn’t she get Neville? What do I have that he doesn’t?”

Harry nods, “It’s a good starting point, Hermione. Let us know if you need help. I better get going too, Ginny will be home soon.”

The Golden Trio exchange quick hugs outside the doors to The Leaky Cauldron. Harry apparates shortly after, though Hermione lingers for a moment longer. Ron is staring at the cobblestones at his feet, looking pensive.

“Ron,” Hermione says gently, “I really do think you should invite Hannah out. She’s probably just as scared as you.”

“I know,” he answers, “and I’m not scared of talking to her if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s actually… it’s actually George, to be honest.”

Hermione’s stomach drops, “George? What’s happened?”

Ron shrugs, “He’s gone off the deep end. It’s like it was just after… well, you know. Hasn’t even written Parvati yet. You know how he lives above the shop? Well, I haven’t seen him at all since Friday, just heard him wandering around up there. I’m worried, Mione.”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sighs, “I’m so sorry. We have to give him time. Perhaps you should write to Parvati for him, say George is feeling under the weather but would love to meet with her next week? Give him at least that much time.”

Ron nods seriously, “I’ll do that. I just… I just don’t know what the Ministry will do if we don’t comply.”

“You think he won’t marry her?!” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s even about _her_ in his head, y’know?” Ron stares at her despondently, and it occurs to Hermione that he has frown lines at the edges of his mouth she’s never seen before — so different from his usual grin.

“Ron, write to Parvati,” Hermione advises, “and tell George you did so. I’ll ask around the Ministry what the consequences are to not following the WPG — I have a feeling it won’t be lenient if I’m honest.”

“I think the same,” Ron agrees, “they’d be fools to introduce this mandate and then let people escape it. Everyone would do it, otherwise.”

Hermione reaches a hand out and squeezes Ron’s bicep, “You don’t worry about it, Ron. You just take care of George and Hannah, and you owl me if you need _anything_ , okay?”

Ron smiles at her; it’s tired but warm, and Hermione is flung back for a moment into the days when his smile made the world make sense again. There is no better person on this earth to take care of George Weasley, and Hermione impulsively leans forward and wraps her arms around Ron again.

“You know I love you, right?” She mutters, “You and Harry — you’re the most important people in the entire world.”

Ron squeezes her so tightly her ribs creak, but she doesn’t complain. He musses her hair when he lets her go, and Hermione scowls at the action.

“Love you too, Mione,” Ron grins, “and we’re going to fix this. Fix _all of it_. The whole damn world if we have to.”

She smiles, “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

Ron’s laughter echoes in her ears as she apparates home, still grinning as she lands in front of her gate. The sight of her cottage is welcome, and Hermione swishes her wand to pre-light the fire inside. She passes through her wards, letting the perfect feeling of safety envelop her.

There is a letter on her doorstep, a familiar crest on the front. She picks it up easily and heads inside, setting a few small charms up to tidy the area while she walks. It feels comfortable to plop into her favourite armchair and unroll the most recent letter from Malfoy.

‘ _Dear Miss Granger,_

_I hope your day was better than mine. This morning I received news that Tracey Davis died. I realize you probably didn_ ’ _t know her well as she was in Slytherin, but she was a friend to me in Hogwarts. It just… seems unfair that she survived the war and is just.. gone._

_Anyway_. _I spent the day mending my mother’s old Solarium. Though I don’t share her love of flowers, it seems like something I should do now that Fall is truly here. It’s a pretty place, and there are very few of those left. Perhaps one day you’ll see it._

_I’ll bring the Scamander book for you to borrow tomorrow evening._

_Until then,_

_Mr. Draco Malfoy'_

Hermione lets the letter fall to her carpeted feet listlessly. Tracey Davis. She hadn’t known her, but the reminder of death and the war sits heavily on her heart. Malfoy’s words, that it was unfair she survived the war and yet still died — they’re true. Hermione wonders what she died of — it’s uncommon for witches and wizards to pass away so young. 

Hermione huffs a breath, pushing past the grim thought of Tracey, and moving on to the idea of Draco Malfoy repairing a garden he had no interest in. Though he had not explicitly said it, it wasn’t hard to imagine he was doing it for the memory of his late mother. Though Hermione has never imagined Draco Malfoy as sentimental, it is becoming increasingly obvious that he loved his mother. 

Hermione almost wants to see the Solarium. She can only imagine its majesty — but the thought of returning to Malfoy Manor, even now, is so abhorrent that it takes her breath away. She knows realistically she must go there, eventually; after all, she can hardly marry Draco and ignore the family Manor. She prays she won’t have to live there — her cottage is comfortable and safe, and it has taken the better part of the last year to feel those things again.

Hermione stands, ignoring the letter on the carpet. Wandlessly she ends the household charms she had started and extinguishes her lights. She pads to her bedroom by feel alone, stripping bare and sliding between her sheets.

In the darkness, Hermione cannot escape her whirling thoughts. Harry and Ron’s words from earlier rest uneasily on her. A _child_. 

She wonders if Malfoy wants children. She can’t imagine him as a father, and a fleeting memory of Lucius Malfoy makes her blood run cold. Hermione has pushed aside any ideas of children since long before the war, and she certainly had no intention of having them now, before the WPG Act. Still, she has no family left to speak of, and it might be nice to have people to come home to.

Hermione scowls in the darkness; it’s hardly the right reason to have children. A coping mechanism to assuage her own loneliness. Though she supposes it hardly matters what her reasoning is since they have taken her choice from her. 

Sleep eludes her, and Hermione contents herself with imagining what she’ll do at work the following morning. She has a large technical report on the merpeople population in Great Britain that she has been postponing for a few days, and she’s determined to tackle it. 

Hermione finally falls asleep with thoughts of merpeople’s rights and population growth dancing around her brain, her new bracelet sitting comfortably on her wrist. 


	8. First Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! So glad you enjoyed the last chapter. This one is shorter, however it's one of my faves! I will be posting another chapter this week, since you've all been patiently waiting for some Draco/Hermione interaction, and that's coming up next :) Enjoy!

* * *

_October 26th, 1999 - Tuesday Early Afternoon_

* * *

Theodore Nott had begged to be sorted into Slytherin.

It’s not that he particularly liked the house, or even really knew much about it. The hat sat on his head, halfway obscuring his vision, and it has whispered into his ear like the caress of a lover, _‘hmmm, what have we here. A Nott. You’re a Ravenclaw through and through, my boy, it’s easy to tell but… hmmm… the Nott’s are always Slytherins.’_

And Theodore Nott, old and musty hat on his head, realized that if he were to come home a Ravenclaw at Christmas holidays, he’d be signing his own death warrant. His father — he would — well.

The Nott’s were always Slytherins.

So Theo had begged, and the Sorting Hat had obliged, and a green-tied Theodore Nott had buried that memory so deeply that leglimency could never find it. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, safe in his Hogwarts bed, he would think about it. Think about what it would have meant to escape to Ravenclaw.

He actually liked being in Slytherin — it wasn’t the house he wanted to escape from. His housemates were clever and calculating, and Theo was _smart_. He played their games easily and never batted an eye.

But he… he wondered what it would have been like to be called ‘intelligent’ instead of ‘conniving’. Wondered if perhaps he could have escaped his father’s hold years earlier and missed out on lifetimes of pain.

He told no one the Sorting Hat’s words, not even after his father had gone and died and Theo could have said anything to anyone with no consequences. As far as the entire Wizarding World was concerned, Theodore Nott is the same as every other Nott that had ever been born: a Slytherin.

Which is why he had nearly fallen over in shock when on the first meeting with Luna Lovegood she had stared at him with her too-wide blue eyes, tilted her head, and frowned. 

“You should have been in Ravenclaw,” Luna says, “with me. It’s easy to tell — how did the hat miss it?”

Theo had stuttered for an explanation, a cover, _anything_ to make the witch stop analyzing him when it had hit him like a bolt of lightning. Luna Lovegood wasn’t _crazy_ — she saw everything. His first instinct upon her words was to cut her down, belittle her intelligence, call her _mad_. He can’t have been the first.

So instead of doing any of those things, Theo sucked in a breath and nodded. “It didn’t.”

The corner of her mouth curled up, a secret smile Theo had never seen before, and she had asked nothing further on the topic. 

The exchange had taught him two very important things about Luna Lovegood. First, she was smart — smarter than him, definitely; and perhaps, most rare of all, she was kind. 

Theo had spent the following days piecing together everything he knew of Luna, distracted from every task he set out to do — which is exactly where he finds himself on Tuesday afternoon, staring at his bookshelf from behind his desk instead of working on the Nott accounts.

A sharp crack startles him and reveals a small house-elf with surprisingly yellow eyes, wringing her wrinkled hands nervously.

“Hello, Thelma,” Theo greets, “what’s wrong?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Master Nott,” Thelma says, “but Lady Lovegood is standing outside of the front entrance.”

Theo stands abruptly, apparating to his front door without warning Thelma. He feels bad for a moment, but his guilt dissipates when he hears a gentle knock at the front door. 

He rushes to swing open the great door, letting in the sunshine and cool autumn air. Luna Lovegood certainly is standing on his front step, her hair tied into a disarray of confusing knots and braids, and overly large dragon earrings hanging from her lobes.

“Miss Lovegood,” Theo greets, “what a pleasant surprise. Would you like to come in?”

Luna tilts her head and thrusts out a small plant. “Yes, thank you. I brought you this fern.”

“Fern?” Theo repeats, grabbing what appears to be some sort of leafy bush from her hands. “I’ve never heard of a fern.” 

Luna claps her now free hands and brushes past him into his foyer, “oh yes, I expect you haven’t. It’s a muggle plant, actually.”

Theo stares down at the leaves as though they will bite him. Though he knows most people wouldn’t believe him, he has nothing against Muggles. His entire life his father had taught him — _trained_ him — that Muggles and half-bloods and muggle-borns were worse than the dirt on his shoes, but…

Well, Theo had realized shortly after the death of his mother that his father had been wrong about so many things. So why would he be right about Muggles?

Still, Theo doesn’t know much of Muggles — he is ignorant of their world, their attitudes, and most definitely their plants. 

“Is it… safe?”

Luna laughs, the sound like ringing bells in the halls of his home. He turns to face her and shuts his door. Even though the sunlight disappears behind the wood, the entryway remains dappled in bright spotlights. Theo frowns at the dancing spots until he realizes that Luna is wearing a dress that appears to be made of hundreds of tiny mirrors. 

“It’s perfectly safe, Theodore Nott,” Luna answers, “and I told you before you may call me Luna.”

“…Luna,” Theo starts, the name far too intimate on his tongue, “what are… I mean… well, I like your dress.”

Luna’s lips curl up into that secret smile she had shown him a few days prior. Theo thinks if he had seen the expression on anyone else, he might believe they were laughing at him. She’s not, though, he can tell.

“Don’t lie, Theo,” she admonishes, still smiling, “you think my dress is silly.”

Theo stares at her, once again stunned into silence. He _was_ lying — the dress is absolutely mad. She looks like a lampshade made of a broken mirror, and her hair is flying in every other direction. Smoke puffs out of her dragon earrings.

“Okay,” Theo allows, “I won’t. You look lovely.”

Luna grins, and this time she doesn’t tell him he was lying. He wasn’t.

“The fern is harmless. Muggles like them to look at. They like the sun and some water.”

Theo stares at the apparently _useless_ fern he had forgotten he was holding. It has… no function.

“I suppose I’ll put it in the living room, then?” Theo says, almost asking.

Luna shrugs daintily, “Hermione told me once that ferns are good oxygen plants — she said they help clear the air. I thought of your Manor.”

Theo frowns, glancing around. The Manor, although dark, is immaculate. The front entrance is made of mahogany wood panelling and a fireplace that extends two storeys up. The rest of the Manor is similarly resplendent, and Thelma ensures that not a speck of dust settles for more than a minute. As far as Theo can see, Nott Manor would be considered one of Britain’s most beautiful homes.

“Is the air… not clean?” Theo asks hesitantly. 

Luna is staring around aimlessly as if taking in the same things he had just looked at. Every time she moves, spots of light dance around on the walls.

Her blue eyes find his again and she steps closer, “oh. I see. I’ve been rude. Your house is lovely, Theo. I only meant that I can feel the air here — you _must_ feel it. It’s… heavy. Dark.”

Theo swallows. “I… don’t know how to fix that, Luna.” 

Luna reaches out and places a hand on his forearm, soft on the dark navy shirtsleeve. He wonders if she knows that she put her fingers unerringly over the Dark Mark branded into the skin below; he’s not sure whether to rip her away from it, or press her fingers deeper — the first gentle thing he’s felt in years.

“You already _are_ fixing it,” Luna says, “I can feel it all around me. The house — it _likes_ me.”

Theo raises his eyebrows at her, lost for words. His silence doesn’t seem to bother her though, and instead, she turns around and walks deeper into the Manor without an invitation. The first time she had been to Nott Manor, only a few days prior, she had only seen the entranceway before they had gone to the gardens out back. The gardens are perhaps the most beautiful part of the property, and Theo had only wanted her to see beauty.

Now, though, he is helpless to do anything except follow her.

Luna Lovegood walks as though she knows exactly where she’s going — unerringly, skipping straight over the parts of the house that Theo himself avoids, and ending up in front of the door to his study, where he had been before her arrival.

“This,” she says, resting a fingertip on the door, “this is where you should put the fern.”

Theo nods, “okay. It’s my study. I spend a lot of time here.”

“Of course,” Luna agrees, “it’s the warmest room in the house.”

Theo decides he won’t question her, though he knows the house is all the same temperature due to a constant warming stasis charm. 

He pushes open the door and Luna follows him in. He places the fern on the windowsill, arranging it so it receives the best sunlight. Luna is sitting in the same chair that Draco Malfoy had sat in only three days prior, her legs crossed primly. The sunlight dances over her mirrors and Theo realizes abruptly that he has tiny spots of light and rainbows all over his dark shirt.

“Thelma,” he blurts, and neither he nor Luna startles at the house-elf’s instant arrival after his call.

“Hello, Master Nott,” Thelma greets, then turns and curtsies at Luna, “Lady Lovegood.”

Luna smiles serenely, “Hello, Thelma. How are you?”

Thelma startles and glances at Theo, as though judging whether he will allow her to answer the question. It stings a little that she thinks she must ask, but Theo nods all the same.

“Thelma is very good, Lady Lovegood,” Thelma answers politely, “She hopes you are well, too.” 

Luna lights up and beams at the house-elf. “I am, thank you. Theo is letting me stay for a bit and visit.”

Theo frowns at her, wondering at her word choice. He is _letting her stay_? Does she not understand she is welcome? She is to be his _wife_ , and though it wasn’t a choice they were allowed to make, he would hardly begrudge her the freedom to come and go as she wished. 

“Master Nott,” Thelma’s voice drags him from his thoughts, “shall I bring up some tea?”

“Tea would be great,” Theo answers, “Luna?”

Luna nods serenely, and Thelma disappears as fast as she arrived. 

The silence between them is suddenly endless, and Theo summons courage he didn’t realize he possessed.

“Luna,” he says, “you can stay as long as you want. And you are allowed to come here whenever you want. Even if I’m not here. The Manor… Thelma will let you in.”

Luna tilts her head at him, silent questions in her gaze. Her eyes are unfathomably blue and Theo is _gone_.

“Alright,” Luna agrees, “is this because the Ministry is forcing you to marry me?”

Theo sometimes wonders at her bravery; if despite her intelligence, if Luna was a Gryffindor in Ravenclaw colours. 

“No, it’s… I mean,” he chokes, “I wouldn’t say…”

Luna’s laugh distracts him from trying to force out any words to make this situation seem acceptable. She’s got her secret smile on, and her blue eyes are dreamy. 

“The Ministry _is_ forcing you to marry me, Theodore Nott,” she tells him, “even if you’ve realized I might not be so terrible to marry.”

Theo feels himself going red — he hasn’t blushed since the third year in Hogwarts when he’d been so distracted by Katie Bell’s skirt riding up that he’d blown up his potion in his face like a bloody _idiot_.

This time, however, his choked silence goes on longer, and he watches as Luna’s expression falls. He’s known of Luna Lovegood for years, though he’s only known her personally for three days, and yet… he’s never seen her look _unsure_.

“I mean,” she murmurs, “perhaps I’m not… people don’t always like — ”

Theo finally gets his act together and snaps, “No.”

Luna’s face flickers in surprise, but Theo grabs at the courage he had somehow found and plows on.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, “you’re _good_. It’s not… well — the Ministry is forcing _you_ to marry me, too, you know.” 

Luna frowns darkly, “The Ministry has no hold over me.”

“Oh, so you’re tying yourself to a _Death Eater_ for fun, then?” 

Theo regrets his words the moment they leave his mouth, poison on his tongue. He wonders now how they had navigated their evening together three days prior so successfully — no mention of the war, or their impending marriage. It had been easy and sweet. It had been _hopeful_.

Still, despite his vicious tone and snappy words, Luna looks serene once again. She is a placid pool, and Theo envies her ability to control her emotions.

“You’re no Death Eater,” she tells him.

Theo reaches as though to rip his shirt up, exposing the brand that will prove her wrong, _so wrong_ , once and for all, but Luna is moving before he is, and suddenly she is sitting on his desk in front of him, legs in between his. He can see her calves, pale and soft skin leading down into socks with pumpkins on them.

“Stop,” Luna says, and once again her fingers are gentle on his forearm. “I know what you want to show me, Theodore Nott, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I have _known_ Death Eaters. I have watched them laugh as I scream, watched them lock me away in the dark. I have _killed_ them.”

Theo swallows and his hand that had been fisting at his cuff softens, finds hers on his forearm and presses her gently to his skin like he had wanted to at the front entrance.

“Are you going to torture me, Theo? Will you trap me in your dungeons and let me forget the sun?” Luna asks bluntly. 

He feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room, despite the stupid fern sitting on his windowsill.

“No,” he breathes, “No, I won’t.”

Luna’s blue eyes smile at him, “You’re no Death Eater.”

He lunges forward, unaware he had given command for his body to move, and the next thing he knows he is holding Luna Lovegood against his body. She is smaller than he thought — more delicate than he ever could have imagined, and she fits underneath his chin like some sort of snap together jig-saw puzzle piece.

He is shaking — trembling the way he had done so often in the war, and Luna’s arms have snaked around his rib cage to hold him steady. He can feel her ridiculous knots tangle against his collarbone, and a thousand tiny mirror pieces press into any exposed skin he has. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m so, so _fucking_ sorry, Luna.” 

Luna sniffs, “You weren’t there, Theo. It’s not your fault.”

He holds her, even though he feels he has no right to. Even though he barely knows her at all.

“Will you marry me?”

Her voice is small and scared, and Theo hates, hates, _hates_ that he has made her sound that way. He pulls his head back to stare at her, and her worried blue eyes. She is chewing on her bottom lip, and it occurs to Theodore for the very first time that he could lean down and kiss her if he wanted to.

He realizes he _does_ want to.

“I thought I already was,” he answers.

Luna scrunches up her nose as if she’s not sure if she’s going to laugh or cry. Instead, like always, she is brave. “The Ministry cannot force me to do anything I don’t want to do, Theo. I’m not like the others — I have nothing they can take.” 

Theo stills — she means she can leave — Luna can _run_ from the WPG and nothing will happen to her. He recalls her saying her house had burned in the war, and though they still own the Quibbler, her father isn’t in Britain any longer. He writes from abroad. Theo imagines this means that any galleons they have are stashed away, out of the Ministry’s reach.

Luna doesn’t _have_ to marry him.

“So why?”

Luna shrugs, “I want a home. I don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

She’s so honest — so bloody _honest_ , that something in Theo’s chest cracks.

“Luna,” he whispers, “you don’t have to marry me. You can stay here — you can have a home. I won’t trap you in marriage.”

She smiles up at him, her arms still around his waist, “I know I’m not what you would choose, Theo. But you’re what I would choose.”

Theo’s breath leaves him at her words. He’s never been _chosen_. He wonders at the absurdity of this — he’s known her _three bloody days_ and already he thinks he’d go to war again for her. It’s not even that he loves her — 

Though he wonders — does he love her? Can he love her? — 

It’s just that she’s gentle and kind and soft, and the most beautiful thing Theo has laid eyes on maybe ever. 

“You’re wrong,” he chokes, “you’re what I would choose. If I could choose — I would choose you.”

Luna’s smile lights up the room more than her dress, and he lifts a trembling hand to rest on her cheek. 

Her voice is far away and dreamy. “So you’ll marry me?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I will.”

He kisses her then, surprising himself. It’s only him craning his neck down and pressing his lips gently into hers, barely a whisper of pressure before he pulls back.

She looks startled, and her fingers leave her back to reach for her mouth, fingertips tracing the cupid’s bow of her lips. 

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she tells him, matter-of-fact.

Theo fights down a surge of possession at her words and schools his expression. “I should have asked.”

Luna nods, “it’s only polite. Could you ask now?”

Theo frowns, bemused, “Umm, could I kiss you?”

Luna pulls her fingers away from her lips, “yes, please.”

And this time, when he reaches, she meets him on her tip-toes and presses her lips back into his, winding her free arm around his neck to hold him closer. He loses himself in kissing her, gentle chaste kisses that he’s never imagined could feel like this. Like lightning striking the same place twice.

She opens her mouth suddenly, and he is drowning in her — she is soft, even in this, and Theo clings to her with all the strength he has. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him gently before Luna.

He pulls away after moments or eternity and presses his forehead into hers.

“That was a very good first kiss,” Luna informs him.

Theo laughs, “I thought so as well.”

“You…” Luna’s voice is hesitant, “haven’t kissed anyone else?”

Theo pulls back and stares at her, “No.”

She says nothing, but her fingers are suddenly at his cheekbone, tracing his jaw. Theo lets her feel him — he’d let her touch him forever. His skin sings at the contact, and he tries to remember the last time he’s felt this happy.

“I dreamt of you,” Luna murmurs, her voice a song, “in the dark, in the cold. I dreamt of you, and what you’d be like.”

Theo closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to imagine her face locked away. He wants to find anyone who ever made her feel fearful and _crucio_ them until they are no longer a person. He wants to become the part of him that is his father and hunt them to the ends of the earth.

“What did you dream of?” he asks, raspy.

Luna’s fingers stop on his lips, and he breathes gently on them.

“Warmth,” she answers, “mostly I dreamt about how you’d be warm.”

Theo opens his eyes to find her watching him.

“I don’t know if I know how to be what you need, Luna,” he tells her.

She shrugs. “You are what you are, Theo. You need not be more.” 

Thelma reappears with a crack, and Theo’s arms tighten instinctively, but Luna doesn’t even flinch. Large yellow eyes meet Theo’s, and Thelma gently sets the tea tray on the edge of his desk.

“Sorry to interrupt Lord Nott, Lady Lovegood,” Thelma squeaks, terror entering her face.

Theo watches her and realizes that perhaps he didn’t do _enough_ after the war. He had offered the house-elves that had remained at Nott manor the chance to work for Hogwarts instead of stay at the Nott estate — to help the school rebuild. Two of the three had taken him up on the offer, but Thelma had stayed. Secretly, Theo had been grateful. He hadn’t wanted to live in the Manor alone, and Thelma had been around since he had been a boy. 

But now he watches the house-elf stare at him as though she expects him to sprout another head and throw her down the stairs. 

He looks like his father — he knows it. He sees it every time he looks in a mirror. Thelma knows it, too. He wonders despairingly if Luna knows it.

“Thank you, Thelma,” he says, “you are a wonderful help.”

Her eyes fill with crocodile tears, and she bows low to hide them, “you are too kind, Master Nott.”

He wants to refute her words — _kind_ is not something he’s familiar with — but Luna’s head presses more deeply into his collarbone and he releases his argument.

“Thelma,” he says instead, “you might as well be the first to know. Lady Lovegood will be the new Lady Nott.”

Thelma snaps to attention and stares straight at Luna, with her mirror ball dress and tangly braids and odd vacant expression. Theo wonders if Thelma can imagine the words his father would have said if he was alive as clearly as he can. 

“This is the most wonderful news,” Thelma almost whispers, “this is the best news Thelma has heard since the last Lady Nott told Thelma she was having a baby. This is _light_.”

Theo gapes for a moment — he hadn’t known that Thelma had been around when his mother had been pregnant with him, but there had only been one Lady Nott in the last twenty years. He doesn’t have a chance to ask about it, though, because Luna’s head has craned to look at Thelma.

“Thelma, you’re right,” Luna agrees, “this is _light_.”


	9. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, THANK YOU for liking Theo/Luna so much. I'm very pleased with how they're turning out and they'll be a few more little snippets of their lives coming up. But for today, I am pleased to present one of my fave chapters so far :) 
> 
> Also, a small warning, there is a mention of suicide in this chapter regarding a non-central character.

* * *

_October 26th, 1999 - Tuesday Evening_

* * *

Draco arrives outside of Java Corner at exactly 5 PM to find Hermione Granger already standing there.

She’s wearing a black dress that hangs to the knee, with long lacy sleeves and pink flowers. Draco realizes the only other time he’s ever seen her wear a dress was at the Yule Ball in the fourth year. Her hair is free around her shoulders, curls somewhat tamed, and she has makeup on. He’s suddenly glad he wore his best dress shirt.

“Granger,” he greets, and he watches her gaze find him. She smiles, which takes him by surprise. He doesn’t think she’s ever smiled at the sight of him before.

“Malfoy,” she replies.

They stare at each other for a moment, awkwardness settling in between them. Distantly, he realizes he should probably comment on her outfit; tell her she looks nice, or that he’s looking forward to the evening. Whether or not it’s true, it still grates on him to say the words — at every passing moment he expects Hermione Granger to turn on him.

Her smile falls slowly, and he knows he’s missed the window when she’s once again looking at him the way one would a feral dog. Caution, hope, terror — an arm half outstretched, whether to shield or pet. 

“Shall we go?” he finally says.

She squares her shoulders, but instead of nodding, she blurts, “I was sorry to hear about Tracey.”

Draco can feel every muscle in his body tense infinitesimally — he had almost forgotten he had sent her the letter. The letter only one night prior, so full of information and hope and _secrets_. He had sent it before he could think twice — and now here he was, his sworn enemy turned soon-to-be wife armed with ammunition.

He recalls how he had greeted her: _Dear Miss Granger_.

 _Dear_.

“She hanged herself,” he says. His tone is biting — it’s not Granger’s fault, but he spits the words at her as though she was the one who tied the noose.

She goes pale, “Tracey… killed herself?”

“Do you blame her?” He sneers, “they matched her with Marcus Flint.”

Granger’s brown eyes furrow and Draco watches as her overly large brain goes into overdrive. 

“I… don’t understand,” she finally admits, “I thought… I thought Tracey and Marcus were friends in school. They were both in Slytherin together.”

Draco wants to shake her. It’s a familiar feeling; how many times in their childhood had he wanted to strangle her just to silence his father’s voice in his head? 

His father is silent, now, though. Forever. 

“Tracey’s mum was a muggle.” Draco snaps.

Granger stills, her brain coming to a halt. Draco watches her put the pieces together; the way he had said _was_. She knows better than most which wizarding families were involved with the Dark Lord, and they both know Marcus Flint walks free only because he never received a brand to his arm.

Not for a lack of wanting, though.

“She was scared,” Hermione murmurs, “why didn’t she just… run?”

Draco lifts a careless shoulder, “Marcus wasn’t the only reason. She’d tried to off herself only six months before.”

Hermione stares at him, mouth a grim line cutting through her expression. Her brown eyes are pure fury and despair, and Draco finally, _finally_ thinks they have something in common.

“This fucking war.” 

He jumps at her words, the sheer surprise at hearing a curse come from Hermione Granger’s mouth rendering him speechless. He likes the way she puts the war in the present tense. Despite ending over a year ago, Draco knows it’s not over. Might never be over for him. He supposes Hermione Granger might understand the sentiment. He watches her jaw clench and her hands ball into fists, and for the first time, he notices her legs are trembling. 

_Crucio_ — his own thoughts mock him.

“Let’s walk,” he says, extending his arm to offer his elbow. 

Her shaking stops and she stares at his arm the way one would a snake — yet still, she takes it. Looping her arm around his and pressing herself closer as he takes the first step towards the restaurant.

Draco thinks about that — the fact that Hermione Granger is pressed close to him, hanging on his arm. He wonders what his younger self would have said. Reacted with disgust and hatred, probably. Still, Draco may be a liar, but he’s honest to himself in his own mind. He may have been taught to hate what Granger was, but he could never quite shake her _,_ not even as children. She’d always intrigued him; the muggle-born who beat him in every subject for _years_. Well-loved by all, the _brightest witch of her age,_ muggle-born; a complete paradox. He knows what word he would have once called her, and the silent thought burns his tongue.

He can’t see her scars through the lace of her sleeve, but he knows they’re there all the same. Watched his own aunt carve the letters into her skin in front of his eyes. He need not see them to read the word — it mocks him in his nightmares. 

“I brought you that book,” he says, throat dry, “Scamander’s one.”

He watches her light up from beside him. “Oh, thank you! I was really looking forward to reading it.”

He realizes she’s wearing the bracelet he gave her, still clasped on the wrist where he had put it. The sight of it against her skin eases something in his chest he didn’t know was there.

The Italian restaurant he’d chosen is nothing fancy, but he holds the door open when they arrive. The hostess asks if they have a reservation, and he issues his name without hesitation. _Malfoy_. How he used to pride himself on it.

They follow her back to a booth tucked into a corner. It’s lovely, with colourful paper menus and a flickering fake candle. Hermione slides into the booth easily, resting her elbows gently on the tabletop. Draco smirks at the movement, thinking for a moment how _horrified_ his mother would be at the sight of her elbows sitting where the food would go.

Granger sniffs and removes her arms, tucking them tightly against her abdomen, and Draco lifts his eyes to find her watching him, hurt dwelling in her eyes. He’s offended her — and he hadn’t even opened his bloody mouth. 

He knew he should have brought flowers, but at the time it had felt so conniving. So fake, to present his once sworn enemy with flowers. He didn’t even know her favourite kind.

They sit in stony silence while Draco casts about aimlessly for topics. He has a thousand things he’d like to say to her; ideas for conversation that he’d been brewing for the past few days. Now he is a blank slate — watching her watch him.

Granger, however, is not tongue-tied. “I hated the book.”

“What?” He flounders.

“Centaur society and their lives were described absolutely _atrociously_ ,” she continues, as though he hadn’t even asked a question, “and it was _completely_ incorrectly! And to think — the wizarding world thinks this is good and accurate information!”

Draco finds his footing and admits, “I know very little about Centaurs.”

“Well, you can forget _anything_ that book taught you,” she proclaims, “I’ve never read such rubbish in my life. You must read ‘Hooves and Hands’ next — Firenze’s cousin wrote it, and it’s a delight. I’ll loan you my copy.”

“Firenze?” Draco rubs his chin, “wasn’t that… the Divination professor?”

Hermione nods. “Yes, and although he’s a bit… well, he’s a pretentious ass if we’re honest, but his cousin is an excellent writer.”

Draco finds himself on the verge of laughter at her words and restrains himself. “I’ve never heard you curse so much.”

Granger stares at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you expect me to be a proper lady?”

“No,” he tells her quickly, “I didn’t. I just also expected you to be the same as you were in fourth year. You know, the golden girl of Gryffindor who never gets in trouble.”

Granger laughs as though he’s said something hilarious, and Draco watches as she lifts the hand with her new bracelet on it to wipe at her eyes. He can’t think of what is so funny, but she’s not laughing at him, so he lets her be.

“Never gets in trouble,” she chuckles, “I admit, I _was_ a bit of a teacher’s pet, but come on Malfoy, I was constantly breaking every school rule they ever had!”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“How about when I purposefully brewed Polyjuice potion in the second year? Illegally, I might add. Or perhaps when I snuck out of Hogwarts at every opportunity? Or perhaps when I purposefully created a secret group whose entire purpose was to learn magic we weren’t supposed to?”

Draco sighs, “I should have known you were the one behind that.”

“Yes,” she agrees simply, “you probably should have.”

He stares her down, watching her arms tight across her stomach. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Scamander book he had brought for her. He plunks his elbows on the table in solidarity and slides it across the wood of the table. Hermione reaches forward hesitantly, letting her body relax for the first time since she sat in the booth.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, “I’ve been looking forward to reading this. Luna met him this summer, you know? Oh! I forgot to tell you — Luna owled me today.”

“What for?” 

Hermione smiles, and it’s a genuinely sweet smile that Draco has never seen before from her, except maybe years ago, watching the Gryffindor table from the Slytherin side. “She sent me this beautiful letter and some lilies. They’re my favourite. Anyway, she mentioned that Theo is nice.”

“Told you,” he mutters. 

She rolls her eyes at his words, but her smile doesn’t budge. “I was thinking… well, I was thinking maybe we could meet up with them one night. Like… a date. I guess.”

“Are you asking me out, Granger?” Draco can feel the smirk on his face, and he _knows_ she hates when he does that, but he can’t quite make his expression go flat.

She frowns, “I’m _marrying_ you.”

Draco chokes on the water he’d been sipping, shock coursing through him. He should have known; should have _remembered_ how brave she was. Hermione Granger said whatever she damn well pleased, and Draco both envies and hates her for the ability. 

She doesn’t let him reply, she just plows on. “I mean… I am, aren’t I? That’s what this means?” She shakes the bracelet at him, “that we’re engaged, right?”

The server arrives to take their orders and spares him from answering. He’s hardly looked at the menu, so he orders the first thing he sees that has seafood, and Hermione asks for ravioli. 

When they are once again left alone, the silence is nearly unbearable with the weight of her question, and Draco draws his spine tall and channels every ounce of manners and diplomacy his mother had instilled in him.

“Yes,” he agrees, “that is what that means. I just… never expected you to be so blunt.”

Her eyes are warm in the glow of the odd, fake candle. “You should get used to that, perhaps.”

“I suppose if I’m to marry a Gryffindor, I will.” 

She smiles down at the table where the book he had brought her is sitting. He’s never _joked_ with her before. He can’t even remember the last woman he joked with. Perhaps Pansy, in the fourth year. Now, Hermione Granger, smiling at an old book across the table from him. 

Draco wonders if she’s trying to make the best of an absolutely impossible situation. He wonders if she still hates him, if he’s still the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. If she replays his cruel words from school in her head on repeat the way he does; if she’s haunted by his actions in the war.

Suddenly, he needs to know. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” 

He sighs, “I’m not an idiot, Granger. I know you don’t want the WPG to succeed. I don’t blame you. Aren’t you trying to fix it?”

Her small hand reaches towards her water glass, and he waits impatiently as she takes a long drink. The condensation runs down the side and makes a ring on their table, and they both watch it happen as though it may contain all the secrets of the universe.

“I am,” she finally allows. “I do plan on trying to take down the Wizarding Population Growth Act.”

“So why?” He asks, “why even bother pretending we’re going to be married?”

Her scowl sets in, expression dark. “Because I’m not an idiot either, Malfoy. I can’t fix this in thirty — no, twenty-six — days. It could take me months. It could take…”

“Years,” he finishes for her.

The word hangs over them. He’s right, and they both know it.

“The Ministry won’t allow their law to be overturned so easily,” Draco says, “and in five years when the birth rates inevitably rise, they’ll abolish the WPG Act themselves. Get all the glory for _freeing us_.” 

Hermione nods, and Draco watches as her right-hand shakes on the table. It’s slight, but it’s there. He’s used to looking for the signs; he had watched his mother’s long, pale fingers as they had trembled. Watched as she pressed them against her thighs to stop the shaking. He wonders briefly if Granger knows why it’s happening, then decides she must, since she’s never been able to leave a question unanswered, even when they were children.

“I have to find a loophole within the year,” she announces, drawing him out of his thoughts.

He smirks, “I take it you don’t want to have children, then.”

Their conversation is once again interrupted when their meals arrive, and he gives her time to collect her thoughts. The pasta is delicious, and he savours it.

“It’s not just that,” she finally whispers, spinning her fork aimlessly in her bowl. “It’s that… it’s that there’s going to be a lot of marriages that are…”

“Like ours?” His words are acerbic, and he wishes he could claw them back into his mouth.

Instead of tensing for battle, Hermione’s shoulders sag. “No. Worse. At least we’re _talking_. At least I don’t think you’re going to murder me in my sleep. Tracey… she didn’t even get this. She’s not the only one.”

Draco sets his fork down, meal suddenly unappetizing.

“A muggle-born girl… Terry Boudreau or something? Went to Beauxbatons. Anyway, she got paired with Dolohov’s nephew.” Draco offers quietly.

Hermione flinches when he says Dolohov’s name, and Draco narrows his eyes at the movement.

“Is he… is he like…” She can’t even finish the sentence. A still-healing wound.

“He wasn’t a Death Eater,” Draco answers, “but he believes the same things. He was in America for the war.”

Granger wraps her arms around herself again, her food is nearly untouched. Draco wonders if he shouldn’t share these things with her, if he should discourage her from taking on the Ministry. If he’s supposed to shield her from this. Isn’t that what a husband should do? Isn’t that what a good man would do?

Merlin, how he misses his mother. She would have known.

“I know you said he wouldn’t help but have you already tried talking to Kingsley?” Draco asks, swallowing hard.

Hermione glances up, brown eyes looking hunted. “He won’t help me. Or he can’t. Either way, he’s a dead end.”

“He’s the _Minister_.” Draco practically snarls, and he watches as she shrinks back. Her hands fist into her ribcage tightly.

He sucks in a breath and forces his temper down. “Sorry. Eat your food.”

Granger’s mouth falls open at his apology, and the urge to attack at her surprise is strong. Before he can, she closes her mouth with an audible snap and uncoils her body, reaching for her fork.

She takes three bites in heavy silence, and Draco follows her lead. All the words they’re not saying hang above them; a guillotine awaiting. 

Hermione grabs her water glass and takes a long sip, then sets it down with an audible thunk. 

“It’s because I already called in my favour,” she whispers to him, as though sharing a secret. 

Draco can feel himself frowning and fights to pull his expression back to neutral, fighting for any composure.

“What do you mean, Granger?” 

Her chin lifts, and Draco watches as she shakes off every moment of insecurity that had plagued her over her dinner. She stares him down, unafraid, and he’s somehow flooded with an unfamiliar pride.

_Brave Gryffindor._

“When the WPG was first announced, I went to Kingsley.” 

Draco isn’t stupid. Although he wants to accuse her of trying to change her name, something about it doesn’t sit right with him. It takes a moment before he realizes what it is, and when he does, he’s _furious_.

“Granger,” he spits, “tell me you did _not_ sacrifice yourself for fucking Potter, again.”

Her eyes flicker in surprise, “How… how did you know that?”

“It’s so bloody _you_ ,” Draco scowls, “I don’t know why I’m surprised. _You’re_ the reason Potter got his beloved She-Weasel when every other Gryffindor got matched with other houses. Potter is the reason you got stuck with _me_.”

“Well, I’m sorry you got stuck with a _mudblood_ , Malfoy.” Granger hisses her words through her bared teeth, and Draco can feel himself rear backwards as though she’s struck him. 

He learned long ago that he had no interest in fighting a losing war. There is nothing more to say. He presses two crisp 50£ notes flat against the tabletop and stands slowly, weariness seeping down to his bones. Regret passes over Granger’s face, but he doesn’t give her the chance to speak.

Draco doesn’t raise his voice, just stares straight into her brown eyes. “I did _not_ say that. Do _not_ put words in my mouth, Granger.” 

“Malfoy, don’t—” 

“Owl me when it’s time to get married.” He interrupts her, not looking back as he strides away from the table. 


	10. The Blue Ban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Over 100 comments - folks, you have made my week. Thank you for all of your kind words of encouragement. This chapter is admittedly short and a little grim, and to beg your forgiveness of that I intend to post the next chapter tomorrow :) Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_October 28th, 1999 - Thursday_

* * *

George Weasley wakes up with a tremendous headache. It's wholly expected and fully deserved since he had drank what felt like an entire barrel of mead the night before. He’s getting used to the feeling; it's the exact same way he has awoken for the past week.

This time, however, it isn’t his bladder that wakes him, but a pounding on the door. 

George drags himself from his bed, passing the closed door in his hallway that never opens anymore, through the kitchen to the front door where the pounding continues. George yanks the door open, ready to shout at Ron until he bloody leaves him _alone_ , only to stop short when he sees it isn’t Ron at all.

In front of him is a woman.

Her hair is long and black, loose in soft waves to her hips. In contrast, she wears a long tight pink dress with black boots, and George squints in the face of the neon colour.

“George,” she says, “good to finally see you. Let me come in, please. I’ll fix you a tea.”

Baffled, George holds the door open and gestures towards the kitchen, as though she’d somehow get lost in his 600 square foot apartment. 

Unerringly she makes her way to the kettle, digging in the tea cupboard before grabbing a tea bag. She pulls out a purple mug he never uses and his favourite chipped green one, and George lets himself plop onto the stool by the counter, watching her without feeling.

Not once has she faltered — she prepares a cup of tea: earl grey, a splash of milk, one sugar, spoon left in. Exactly, _exactly,_ the way he likes it. She slides the chipped green mug towards him, her expression inscrutable.

He sips his tea mildly and watches her as she watches him. Her eyes are dark, almost as black on the iris as the pupil, and tilted up in an almond shape. She’s quite lovely, and George is not ignorant of the fact that he has answered the door in ratty pyjamas and an old robe. He recognizes her, in a vague-way; as though from another time, in a familiar gold and red room. In a hall filled with battle, curses and spells flying, smoke and death hanging in the air.

After a moment she sighs and reaches into her small purse, bringing out a small vial and sliding it across the countertop to rest beside the tea she made him.

“Hangover potion,” she says, the ghost of a smile around her lips.

George reaches for it, un-stoppering and drinking without checking the label or colour. Her eyes narrow a fraction at his carelessness.

“I see,” she murmurs, and for a frightening moment George wonders if she _does_.

Before he can discern the answer she is moving past him, walking briskly towards his bedroom. George nearly falls over trying to get off the stool and follow her, unsure if he wants to stop her or see what she does.

She pauses at the door that never opens and reaches a hand out, as if to press her fingertips gently into the wood. Ghosts seem to dance around them both, and she moves impossibly slowly.

“Don’t,” George snaps as she makes contact. After a moment, she moves on, ignoring his curt command. 

She reaches his room, finding clothes on the floor and an unmade bed. Her wand appears and before George can say anything his room is tidying itself, and his floor is once more visible. His clothes fold themselves and return themselves to their drawers — she doesn’t make a single mistake in their placement.

“I realize I am an inconvenience to your grief,” she says, “but you’ll thank me.”

It finally occurs to George exactly what he’s looking at; her red lips turn up, accompanied by a single dimple on her cheek, her skin dark and luminous.

“You’re my wife,” George announces.

She smiles, full teeth now. “Not yet, George Weasley.”

“Parvati Patil,” he shakes his head, “you shouldn’t have come.”

She tilts her head, and for a moment George watches her eyes go vacant as if she’s staring straight through him. Parvati’s hand comes up, flutters by her throat for a moment as though she might gasp, but no sound emerges.

“I had to,” she tells him, “else you’d be dead by tonight.” 

He scowls, “well, then all your problems would be solved, eh?”

Instead of fighting back, she laughs. It’s the first cheerful sound he’s heard in his apartment in almost two years, and the sound of it almost brings tears to his eyes. God, how he wishes he knew how to laugh — he seems to have lost the knack for it.

Parvati sobers, but her smile remains. “Hardly all of my problems, George. Hermione would murder me, for one. Plus, you’ve that meeting with the Chudley Cannons at the end of the month; Ron can’t do that alone.”

He crosses his arms, flabbergasted at her words. He wonders if he should call her by her first name since she seems to insist on using his, and the rest of his family’s. He wonders how the hell she knows his schedule. The dark mood emanating from him doesn’t deter her, and Parvati steps away, turning back towards the kitchen. He watches her step over the floorboard that always creaks unerringly and disappear around the corner.

George follows her much more sedately, turning over the interaction in his brain, again and again, trying to make sense of something nonsensical.

When he reaches the kitchen Parvati is pulling out some sandwich supplies. 

“I know what you are,” George says into the silence.

Parvati’s eyes lift to his, dimple showing. “Yes. I knew you would figure it out. I always knew you were smart, even before I _saw_ you, but you’re fast.”

“You’re a seer.” He says it out loud, mostly to make sure he’s not imagining things. He’s never met a seer before — there are few witches or wizards who can say they have. They’re incredibly rare, one in every few generations. George has always questioned if they’re even _real_ , but there’s no doubting the woman in front of him.

“Yes.” She agrees, dark eyes still laughing.

“The floorboard,” he tells her, “it—”

She laughs, “I’ve seen you dodge it enough.”

“You’ve _seen_ me?” George can feel a question trembling in his throat, a name that no one in his family seems to want to speak any longer, but he can’t — he can’t get it — 

“I didn’t start seeing you until the WPG announcement.” Parvati murmurs, “And leading up to the Battle I saw… I saw a lot of things. Fred wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry.”

George feels himself sag, whether with relief that she hadn’t stood by and _known,_ or fury that she’s the first person to say Fred’s name in months. 

“Parvati, I’m not exactly top husband material. Bit of a mess, really.”

Parvati’s lips curl into a smirk, an inside joke with herself. She doesn’t correct him, instead, she puts the finishing touches on a sandwich and hands it to him, an olive branch extended from her long fingers.

George takes it hesitantly.

“We’re all a bit messy,” she tells him. “But unfortunately, we haven’t got much choice.”

“Isn’t there a way to take down the WPG?” George asks her.

Parvati steeples her fingers under her chin, and George takes the moment to take a bite of the sandwich. It settles his stomach a bit, and his headache had receded with the hangover potion. 

“Being a seer… it’s not what you’d imagine. I don’t see everything. I see flashes — and _only_ if they’re connected to me or those I love. I’ve never seen you in any vision until the WPG letter fell into my hands. I took one look at the black parchment, and suddenly… there you were.”

George frowns as he chews. “So who do you see, mostly?”

“My family,” she answers, “and big events. Really, _really_ important stuff, sometimes. It takes decades to master the talent, and I don’t know if there are any others alive to teach me. I didn’t even see the stupid WPG coming.”

George lifts an eyebrow, “what would you have done if you’d seen it?”

“Tell my family to pull our galleons and run. Hide.”

“Ouch,” George says, only half-serious, “am I so terrible?”

He’s expecting Parvati to laugh, but her face is expressionless. She’s gone a little grey, as though she might faint. Finally, she looks at him, and her eyes are wet with tears.

“You don’t know,” she answers softly. “There is worse yet, for us, out there. I’m so _tired_ , George.”

George sets his sandwich down and approaches her, attempting to project comfort and safety with every fibre of his being. He’s not sure he succeeds; not with his gaunt face and tattered robe. Not with the stink of alcohol on his breath and the grief of war etched into his skin. Not with a shadow of twin hanging over his every movement; a dance he cannot complete.

“Parvati,” he murmurs, “tell me, what have you seen?”

She shakes her head, “It’s not so simple. I can’t just… explain for you. There are so many… there are so many roads and twists. I don’t _know!_ ”

George shushes her, “It’s okay, it’s okay. We can figure it out.”

Parvati slams her eyes shut as if to block out the images, but she reaches one trembling hand out and fists it in his robe. Her knuckles go white.

“Whatever you do, George Weasley, do _not_ wear blue.”

George stares down at her tight grip on his robe, and the ridiculous words echoing in his ears. 

“Alright,” he agrees slowly, “no blue. Easy.”

Parvati opens wide eyes. “Not so simple, then. You won’t die on this day, not any longer. I fixed it. For now.”

“How was I going to die?”

“Alone,” Parvati answers, voice strong and sure. She pulls no punches and straightens her spine to brush imaginary lint off her dress.

George wishes he could find his voice. Wishes he could shout or cry or scream, but there is nothing left inside of him. Alone. Of course, he would die alone; he’s _living_ alone. One half of a permanently destroyed whole. 

Fury — fury that he had been so fucking close. So close to Fred.

_Damn her._


	11. The Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all so much for your comments. I'm so glad you enjoyed the George chapter and Parvati's character. Here is the long-awaited follow-up chapter from Draco & Hermione's disastrous date :) Enjoy.

* * *

_October 29th, 1999 - Friday_

* * *

The fire roars across from her, a comforting crackling echoing through the living room every few minutes. It’s a sound Hermione had enjoyed so long ago; safe in Gryffindor common room, wrapped up in homework and friends.

Now, her quill races across her parchment, writing notes about every pairing of the WPG she has heard of so far. The list is long, and there are absolutely no common denominators that she can see.

Draco and Ron had been correct in a way; the majority or pairings were between different houses. They matched very few couples within their own house. It seemed limited to George and Parvati, Harry and Ginny, and Tracey Davis with Marcus Flint. 

She needs more information. 

Hermione toys with the bracelet around her wrist, thoughts whirling as she does so. Malfoy has been silent; her windowsill empty of Taffy for the past two days. 

Not only does she want a chance to apologize for being rude at dinner, but Hermione is also not above using Malfoy’s connections for better information. The Malfoy library is vast, and it contains countless pureblood marriage contract books. 

She needs to take down the WPG. Hermione feels it like a brand in her stomach — she can’t sit by and watch the Ministry force wizards and witches alike into a glorified breeding program. It’s hardly better than what Voldemort had wanted. 

Her quill nearly creaks under the fist she’s making. She’s so fucking sick of fighting to be free, and every moment she thinks it’s over, she’s shackled again. Her magic quakes dangerously inside of her, and with every passing hour of each day, Hermione feels more like a volcano about to erupt. 

Kingsley has been absent from the Ministry all week. Hermione is positive he’s floo-ing straight into his office, but she hasn’t seen him nor heard anything from him since the night she appeared on his lawn. 

It’s no surprise; half the wizarding populace feels betrayed by him (herself included), and half seem thrilled he finally took action. Something had to be done, apparently — businesses were failing, citizens were fleeing, birth rates dropping…

Hermione drops her quill and fists her hands into her stomach. It’s an unpleasant habit she’s picked up, pressing shaking fingers into her ribs. It serves a dual purpose since it calms her racing heartbeat and reminds her to take a breath.

Forcing herself to be logical — she’s good at this. It’s how she survives.

She has exactly 23 days before she must marry Draco Malfoy. She has exactly 359 days before she must conceive and be pregnant. 

Hermione wonders if Draco sits in his house and calculates days and hours and minutes the way she does. It’s not even something new; she picked up the habit before the war. 545 days since Voldemort died. 837 days since her parents knew her name. 2 days and 17 hours since she put her foot in her mouth and offended her future husband by assuming that underneath his handsome facade, a prejudiced death eater still lingered.

Hermione lets her quill drop and pulls her feet towards herself, curling back into her armchair. She sighs heavily; how quickly she had thrown venomous words back at Draco, when he had been acting somewhat pleasant. 

The way he had watched her — especially after she had criticized the war. It had felt like she was staring in a mirror.

She knows what she has to do. She’s been avoiding it because she’s not entirely sure if she’s brave enough to actually go through with it. Which is _ridiculous_ because she has literally ridden on the back of a feral dragon without batting an eye, all while running for her life by camping across most of Britain, and scheming to take down a murderous megalomaniac.

But…

She swore to herself she would never, _never_ end up in Malfoy Manor again. 

Hermione forces herself to stand. She walks woodenly to her small cupboard beside her fridge that holds her liquor, and takes a shot of muggle whiskey, straight from the bottle.

“Bloody _fuck_ ,” she mutters. Liquid courage. She turns to her door and just starts walking. 

The door slams behind her as she storms away from her cottage, and before she can think too hard about it, she fixates her mind on the imposing iron gates she still sees in her nightmares.

For the first time since she first learned to apparate she lands on her hands and knees, nausea rushing through her. It’s less to do with her apparition skills than it is with the location, and she glances up to see the gates she had hoped never to see again.

In the setting sunlight, the curled iron posts look somehow less frightening, and Hermione gasps in a breath until she can clamber to her feet. She’ll be damned if she has to be dragged inside again; she’ll go on her own two legs or she’ll die trying.

Hermione only makes it halfway down the endless driveway before a small house-elf appears in front of her. She’s wearing a lovely purple dress and a large grey toque, and she stares up at Hermione with nearly luminescent blue eyes. Her ears are huge and crooked.

“Hello Mistress,” she greets, “I am Juney.”

“Hello Juney,” Hermione replies, pleased to see that Juney looks well treated. “I was hoping to speak to Mr. Malfoy.” 

Juney’s blue eyes grow wide, “Master Malfoy is not expecting guests. Juney will take Mistress to the parlour for tea and let him know you have arrived.”

Juney reaches a tiny hand out immediately, and Hermione forces herself not to recoil. She can vaguely hear herself gasping, as though from far away. “Juney… the Parlour… is that the… can I go to a smaller room? Somewhere different?” 

Juney stares at her, and something in her voice must give her away because the tiny house-elf’s face softens. “Mistress, Juney can take you to the library.”

Hermione nods, and Juney’s hand snaps forward before she can change her mind, spinning them away.

The landing is smoother than her last apparition, and Hermione finds herself in a cozy library room, smaller than she had pictured in her head. It has an enormous desk under a window, and a warm fire blazing in the corner. Every inch of the room is painted in shades of green, with shelves of dark wood all over. It gives the overall impression that she has just stepped straight into a forest.

“This is Master Malfoy’s personal library,” Juney breathes, “Mistress can sit over there. Juney will bring tea.”

The house-elf disappears, leaving her alone in Malfoy Manor. Hermione finds her way towards the small armchair by the fire and lets herself sink into it slowly. It’s only then that she realizes she has her wand clenched so tightly in her hand that it's leaving indents in her palm and shooting pain up her arm. 

Malfoy appears within what feels like seconds, with an expression that Hermione has never seen on his face before. He somehow looks as though he’s seen a ghost; sallow and paler than ever.

“Granger?” He murmurs.

“Hi,” Hermione waves half-heartedly, “I came to apologize.”

If anything, he only looks more shocked. He approaches her slowly, stopping at the edge of his desk. He’s got his hands spread out, palms facing up in supplication.

“Granger,” his voice is low and cautious, “you didn’t have to come here.”

“Am I not welcome?” She snaps without thinking. 

He flinches, but instead of running this time he just stares at her, and slowly she realizes she’s done the exact same thing as the other night.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Stop what?” He laughs. “Assuming the worst of me? Seems like that’s all I’ve ever given you cause to do.”

Hermione swallows, “Yes, well. I still want to apologize. I _do_ forgive you for all the years of being a prat, and _now_ I am trying to start over.”

For the very first time since Hermione met Draco Malfoy at eleven years old, he looks vulnerable and sad. He drifts towards her slowly and crouches down in front of her, closer than he’s ever come. She’s looking down into his eyes; something she’s never done before. 

“Granger,” he murmurs, “we can’t start over.”

She flinches, “What? But I thought—”

“Granger, you’re shaking.”

Hermione scowls, “So what?”

“So,” Draco explains, voice still unnervingly gentle, “you are obviously _terrified_ to be here. I don’t blame you. You’re wearing your _pyjamas_ , Granger. You don’t even have that little beaded bag you bring everywhere. Did you apparate here without thinking?”

Hermione shuts her eyes so she doesn’t have to stare at him. He sees _everything_. 

“I had to apologize.” Her reason sounds more like an excuse with every passing moment. 

Draco nods, “I accept your apology.”

“Then why can’t we start over?” Even to her own ears, she sounds like she’s begging. She wonders what Malfoy thinks of her, wearing her favourite pyjamas covered in tabby cats and trembling. She’s hardly the picture of a brave Gryffindor. Hardly a war hero.

“Hermione, this war… we can’t just start over. We are the people the war made us to be. We can only go on from here.”

She opens her eyes to meet his. It’s the first time she’s ever, _ever_ heard him say her first name. She likes how it sounds on his lips; a benediction hanging between them. She didn’t even know Draco Malfoy could sound so gentle.

They are interrupted by a quiet _crack_ to announce Juney’s arrival. The house-elf sets a tray of tea and cups on the desk, complete with a small plate of cookies.

“Thank you, Juney,” Hermione whispers. There’s so little air inside the room.

Juney smiles at her, “Mistress is most welcome.”

“Juney,” Draco suddenly says, “if Miss Granger appears here again, you can bring her straight into my library. She’s welcome.”

Juney’s wide blue eyes turn towards Hermione as if assessing her. She bows again and then disappears.

“You didn’t thank her,” Hermione says.

“What?”

“For the tea. You didn’t thank her.” 

Malfoy huffs out a breath of air. “She’s a house-elf, Granger. She doesn’t _need_ me to thank her.”

Hermione frowns at his words. “It’s still _nice_.”

A smile spreads across Draco’s face, and for a moment she thinks he might laugh at her, but he only stands up and moves to pour a cup of tea. He pours two cups and adds milk and one sugar to one of them, bringing it back to her.

“You should know by now, Granger. I’m not nice.”

Hermione sniffs. “I don’t believe you’re as heartless as you say, Draco Malfoy. How do you know how I take my tea?”

Draco freezes for the smallest moment, then immediately summons a chair to sit beside her and plops down. “Granger, you’re hardly the first person in the world to like milk and sugar in tea.”

She scowls, but she lets it go. She sips at the cup of tea slowly, savouring the warmth and comfort. It seems ludicrous; less than an hour ago she imagined returning to Malfoy Manor and had barely been able to string a sentence together, and now she is comfortably enjoying a cup of tea inside.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want Juney to take me to the parlour.” Hermione confesses.

Draco’s eyes find hers, flickering silver in the firelight. “You could have gone to the parlour. It’s quite nice… near the front of the house, with lots of couches.”

“I was afraid… I was afraid that it was—” she can’t even get the words out before Malfoy is interrupting her.

“It’s not,” he bites out. “That room… it doesn’t exist anymore. After… well, we closed off parts of the Manor. Renovated everything else.”

“You and your mother?” Hermione asks.

Draco’s lips go pinched, but he answers her with a slow nod. 

“I was very sorry for your loss,” Hermione murmurs. It’s true, even if there was no love lost between her and the Malfoy matriarch.

Draco sips his tea slowly, ignoring her for a moment. Silence reigns other than the crackling of the fire. Hermione wonders if she made a mistake bringing up Narcissa Malfoy.

“Thank you.” He finally says. “I am afraid our wedding might be a bit on the small side though. I’m not very popular, you know?”

He says it deprecatingly, but Hermione learned to read between the lines in her second year at Hogwarts. He has no family to speak of, and the vast majority of the wizarding world despises the name Malfoy on principal alone.

“That’s better for me,” Hermione says softly, “as long as you let Ron and Harry come.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays at his lips. “I suspect I’d never hear the end of it from you if half of Gryffindor wasn’t able to attend.”

His words startle a laugh out of her, and it seems to relieve Malfoy. He summons a chair to sit beside her, and does so quietly, watching her as she tries to reign in her chuckles. Tries to regulate her breathing, which has somehow gone a little sporadic.

“So we’re still on, then?” He asks, finally. 

Hermione nods solemnly, “I suppose we are.”

Malfoy smirks and raises his teacup in a mock toast. “To the future Lady Malfoy. When shall the date be?”

Her breath catches at the words _‘Lady Malfoy’_. It’s the first time she’s ever realized she will be part of the Malfoy family. She’s never even considered being anything other than Granger. Muggles often keep their last names, though it’s not a practice the wizarding world has ever adopted. She supposes she could be one of the first… stay Hermione Granger forever.

Though Granger means nothing to her any longer. She is the last one — the final Granger. There is nothing to tie her to her surname.

Draco seems to hear her thoughts, “Granger… you don’t _have_ to be Lady Malfoy.”

Hermione watches him, watches how it pains him to make this concession. He knows his name is tarnished; that no sane person would tie themselves to it. For a moment, one hysterical moment, she feels victorious. Now he must know how it feels for his name to be _dirty_.

She reigns her thoughts in; terror floats amongst her veins. How vicious her thoughts can turn in an instant. How bloodthirsty she has become.

Perhaps the name Malfoy suits her.

“Lady Malfoy is fine,” she breathes, “the name is irrelevant, the person is what is important.”

Draco says nothing, so Hermione summons her strength. 

“I know who I am.” She tells him, firm and proud.

Still, he watches, silver eyes taking in every atom of her being. She wonders if he can tell she’s lying. If he knows just by staring at her fingers and her eyes and her stupid cat pyjamas that she’s lost. That she’s _been_ lost for 932 days.

“As do I, Granger.”

They stare at each other. Hermione wants to pick apart his statement; does he think he knows _her?_

Her teacup is empty and rattling a bit in its saucer, and though the library is warm and welcoming, she is suddenly hyper-aware that she is in Malfoy Manor. Draco must watch the emotions flicker over her face because he reaches out and takes her teacup from her gently.

“I want to go home, now,” Hermione tells him; breathless and near-begging.

He stands and gently reaches for her hands, twining his long fingers around them. Her hands are clammy and she’s almost embarrassed, but he pulls her up to standing before she can yank away from his grip.

“I don’t know where you live, Granger. Can you apparate yourself safely?” 

She closes her eyes; she’s liable to splinch herself, but she’s also not willing to share her cottage yet. Maybe not ever.

“Can… can you take me to the coffee shop?” 

He doesn’t question why she would want to go there; he doesn’t even bring up the fact that it may not even be open and she’s _still_ in her pyjamas. Draco Malfoy, the childhood bully, and pureblooded Death Eater who had haunted her nightmares for _years_ , gently lets his hands wrap around her elbows, drawing her close to him. He apparates easily, and they land in the alleyway that is becoming more familiar by the day, the smell of coffee permeating the air. 

He steadies her and then lets her go, backing up a step.

Hermione breathes deeply and opens her eyes to see him watching her. His face is impassive; oh, but she is seeing him now, and there is a hint of worry.

“You can’t come to my house.” It’s an apology and a threat, all rolled into one.

Draco says, “that’s fine. We can meet at coffee shops and restaurants.”

“Or your house.” Hermione stiffens her spine and stands up straight, annoyed that she still only reaches his collarbone at her full height.

“Granger,” Malfoy sighs, “I don’t think you should come to my house.”

Hermione scowls darkly, “I’m not some wilting damsel, Malfoy. I _realize_ I didn’t exactly think tonight through, but I’ll be fine in future. Now I know what to expect.”

“Granger,” he snaps, “it’s not because I think you’re weak, or that you’re not welcome.”

“So what is it then? Why am I being banned from your Manor, if I’m to be your wife?” She spits the words like poisoned daggers.

Malfoy runs a hand through his white-blonde hair. “I was _there_ , Granger. My house is toxic — it’s bad for you. You don’t have to go there. You _never_ have to go there, not if you don’t want to.”

She sags briefly. Hermione realizes she’s fighting with Malfoy for no reason. She hates Malfoy Manor. He’s offering her an out, and she’s arguing.

“Sorry,” — she waves a hand through the air, exhausted at the idea of another fucking apology to Draco Malfoy — “I don’t want to go there. You’re right. I don’t want to argue. What about when we’re married?”

Malfoy steps towards her, still farther than he had been in the comfort of his own library. “Let’s worry about it later. We’ll live somewhere else. Your place, maybe. But for now, you need to go home. Do you think you can make it?”

Hermione summons her strength to nod. She waves goodbye half-heartedly, not even uttering another word before she disappears.

The last thing she sees is Draco Malfoy frowning, one hand slightly outstretched as if to grab her.


	12. Wrackspurt Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you ALL for your comments and kudos, I am blown away and so grateful for all your kind words. Secondly, I apologize for the delay in this chapter! Nano got the better of me, I fear, but the GOOD news is, this story is sitting at about 70k, and will probably wrap up around 100k, so lots to go. Thanks for being patient with the slow burn, I promise it will pay off! SO glad you're enjoying the other characters as well. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

_October 30th, 1999 - Saturday_

* * *

“Luna, I really think I should have stayed at home,” Theo says for probably the fifth time that evening. Despite his words, he continues to follow the halo of blonde hair in front of him. She’s moving quickly, eager to see her friends.

Oblivious to the glares of everyone in the Leaky Cauldron, watching them.

Theo knows the looks aren’t aimed at her. At best, Luna is publicly regarded as a hero who fought in the war. At worst, people think she’s odd.

He, on the other hand, might as well be a mass murderer for all the vitriol his name brings upon him.

“Luna,” he says again, half-begging.

She finally stops and turns to stare at him. Her hair is down and loose today, no knots or braids to be found, though her shirt does somehow resemble a patchwork quilt. She’s got denim overalls on top of the ensemble, and she’s hand-stitched small sunflowers in gold thread down the sides of each leg. All in all, it’s rather adorable. Far less showy than her mirror dress.

“Theo,” she grins, “you _have_ to come. I want you to meet my friends.”

Theo can hardly deny her, beaming in her exuberance. Still, he wonders how much her friends are looking forward to meeting _him._

She leans forward suddenly and presses against him. It’s not quite a hug, and Theo feels himself smiling at her almost unwillingly, but it’s hard to ignore how people are pointing and staring.

 _Luna Lovegood and the Death Eater_. He can almost see the headlines now.

“Theo,” her voice draws him back to reality, “people have always stared. It doesn’t bother me. At least this time I got to choose the reason they’re staring.”

“Luna, it’s not exactly the same thing. People were staring because they just didn’t know you. Now they’re staring because you’re chummy with a _murderer_.”

Blue eyes, solemn in the noise of the Leaky Cauldron. “Are you a _murderer_ , Theodore Nott?”

“No, Luna, no, you _know_ that—”

“Then it’s not different, is it?” She interrupts. “They still think I’m weird. Now they just think I’m weird because I like you.”

He gives up trying to tell her what to do, and somehow she must sense it because she grins at him. Her hand reaches out and grabs his, in full view of anyone who is looking. He can almost feel the hair-raising on his neck; there’s no doubt they’ll be all over the Daily Prophet tomorrow with this display.

With any luck, the Prophet will correctly assume they are part of the WPG and being forced to marry. They reveal the same story each day as new couples appear — the newest being Dean Thomas and Katie Bell, who despite being friendly acquaintances and housemates, were important enough to warrant a spot on the front page. 

The golden trio finally comes into view and Theo can feel his stomach sink as they all glance at Luna and smile, and their smiles turn to shock when they see her towing him along. 

“You didn’t _tell them_?” He hisses quietly, loud enough for Luna to hear. She just giggles and squeezes his hand, and Theo is _hardly_ reassured. 

Surprisingly, it’s Hermione Granger who recovers first and stands, pulling Luna into a hug and then extending her hand.

“Theodore Nott, I’m Hermione Granger.” 

Theo takes her hand as though he’s grabbing a viper. “Call me Theo. I know who you are, of course. It’s good to meet you.”

She sits back down and gestures to the benches beside her, so Luna slides in, leaving him on the edge. He’s grateful she at least realized he wanted access to an easy escape.

“Nott,” a voice distracts him, and suddenly he is staring at a face he’s seen a million times before. 

“Harry Potter,” he says.

“These are my friends. Harry, Ron, and Hermione.” Luna announces, just a beat late into the awkward silence. “This is Theo. My fiancee.”

Ron Weasley goes pale in the wake of her words, though none of them look particularly surprised. Theo realizes Draco must have told Hermione already, and she had shared the news of Luna and his match with her Gryffindor friends.

“Oh, Luna,” Harry breathes, “I’m so sorry about this terrible law.”

Luna smiles, “It _is_ terrible, Harry, but don’t be sorry for me. We’re happy.”

Ron’s pale face takes on a shade of green, and Theo’s mild humour turns into sour anger. He _knows_ he’s not good enough for Luna Lovegood, Weasley doesn’t have to be so _obvious_ about it.

“That’s great, Luna,” Hermione grins, “I’m glad you thought to bring Theo tonight. I’ve been wanting to meet you.” 

She directs the end of her sentence to him, and he watches her. She’s fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist. He can tell by look alone that it’s worth a small fortune, and it isn’t a hard leap to know who gave it to her.

He glances around the table, “It’s pretty busy in here. Lots of ears.”

“You can speak freely,” Harry Potter replies, “we’ve cast a _muffliato_.”

“Sneaky Gryffindors,” he appraises the golden trio more closely. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised they show common sense; they did take down the Dark Lord.

“Where’s Draco?” Luna asks suddenly, turning to Hermione.

Hermione visibly squirms, “I uh… I didn’t think to invite him.”

Luna frowns. “Oh dear. Next time I suppose.”

“Let’s hope note,” Weasley mutters, though it’s obvious everyone heard his words. 

Hermione scowls and shoots a dark glare at the redhead. “Be _nice_ , Ronald.”

Ron rolls his eyes, but his expression softens slightly at her admonishment, as though he had been expecting it and it comforts him. 

Theo takes it all in silently. It’s there in every moment between them. Thousands of hours of history shared within a glance or simple word. 

“I’m going to the loo,” Luna announces, “I’ll bring you back a drink, Theo.”

He stands to let her out numbly, panicked that his only ally in this mess is disappearing, but she’s gone before he can even think of a way for her to stay. He sits back down slowly, muscles creaking with tension.

“She’s as mad as ever,” Ron Weasley mutters.

Suddenly, Theo isn’t afraid anymore. He’s _angry_. “What did you just say?”

Ron’s head snaps up and looks at him as if surprised that he would even speak to him. He flushes with what could be embarrassment or anger.

“I didn’t mean it badly,” he explains, “you know how Luna is. Or maybe you don’t, yet. Anyway, she’s a bit — ”

Theo cuts him off, “Luna is smart, and she’s kind, and she brought me here by telling me I was meeting her _friends_ , but perhaps she is wrong. Is she wrong?” His voice goes wintry and dangerous near the end, and it doesn’t escape his notice that Harry Potter has one hand under the table. He would bet his entire fortune he has at least two wands trained on him. 

“No,” Hermione snaps, both hands above the table and extended to placate, “no, she’s our friend. Ron just… has a way with words, sometimes. Ron?”

Ron heaves a breath and slowly returns both hands to his pint glass. “Sorry. Luna _is_ great.”

Harry Potter doesn’t move, but Theo doesn’t blame him. 

“So you _like_ her, then?” Hermione says into the awkward stalemate.

Theo turns a sneer on her; secret Ravenclaw or not, he long ago perfected the art of condescension. Draco Malfoy _is_ his best friend, after all. He’s about to deliver a scathing remark about the state of Hermione Granger’s fabled intellect when Luna’s voice drifts across the table.

“Oh dear,” she says, “I think I left too early. Far too many Wrackspurts here.”

She’s holding one firewhiskey with ice, and one oddly shaped glass boot with the brightest neon pink liquid he’s ever seen inside of it. 

He stands abruptly, letting her take her spot back in the booth, and she slides the firewhiskey over in front of him. He takes a sip and then nearly chokes when he feels her gentle hand press onto his knee under the table. It takes every ounce of his Slytherin sneakiness to maintain his expression, and her palm burns on his leg, both a comfort and a distraction.

“Luna,” Harry restarts the conversation tentatively, “and Theo. Ginny and I will be marrying on November 6th at the Burrow. You’re both invited.”

Luna bounces lightly in her seat, a smile spreading across her face. “That’s _wonderful_ , Harry.”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees, “it’s definitely a bright spot in a dark month.”

“We can go, right, Theo?” Luna turns to him, blue eyes lit up. The very last thing in the entire universe he wants to do is go to Harry Potter’s wedding at the Weasley household, but he’s hardly about to say no to her.

“If you wish,” he replies, and she turns back to her neon pink drink with an excited laugh.

“Malfoy will be there,” Harry adds, watching Theo, “maybe. Hermione, did you mention it to him yet?”

Hermione flushes. “Not yet! But I’m going to — I just… haven’t gotten around to it.”

It’s a paltry excuse, and judging by Ron’s skeptical look, the brains of the trio rarely procrastinates, so this is out of character for her. Theo watches as she tugs at her curly hair on one side, nerves playing out on her face for all to see. Gryffindors — so _transparent._

“You should invite him,” he says, without thinking. “He’ll go with you.”

Hermione’s eyes snap to his, the same golden brown as his firewhiskey. “I… I will. I’ll write to him.”

“Speaking of writing,” Ron Weasley announces, “Hannah and I finally got together yesterday.”

Hermione grins, “Finally! How did it go?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Ron’s shoulders slump. “She was polite, and we’re _friends_ , but we both know that this is killing her. It’s _killing_ her.”

Hermione’s face is ashen, but it’s Harry who speaks. “I can only imagine. I’m… I’m so sorry, mate.”

Theo watches Ron’s misery etched across his face. It’s obvious he detests the WPG, but more surprisingly, Theo realizes that he hates it more on his future wife’s behalf than his own. 

“I don’t… I don’t know who Hannah is?” Theo replies quietly.

Hermione turns to him, “Hannah Abbott. She was in Hufflepuff. Neville Longbottom and her have been dating for a while before they announced the WPG.”

“That’s shite,” Theo replies. No one argues.

The rest of the evening follows in a more comfortable pattern; the Gryffindors bicker and laugh while Luna watches them with bright eyes, and Theo watches Luna. Her hand remains warm and gentle on his knee, and after an eternity or three seconds, he slips his palm down to cover it. She twines their fingers together under the table, and Theo thinks he could withstand any amount of Gryffindors for her.

They say their goodbyes quite late, and Hermione hugs Luna tightly before extending her hand for Theo to shake. 

Her scars are glaringly obvious under the table light, and Theo has to force himself to look away from the word carved into her arm. Draco had mentioned it once, during the war, when they had found an old bottle of firewhiskey and gotten supremely drunk. The night is hazy, but he remembers the look of stark misery on his best friend's face as he described his aunt’s actions.

Hermione Granger has been on the banned list of subjects between them since before the war ever began. Nothing has changed; even with the forward marching of the Wizarding Population Growth Act and their impending marriage. She’s a sore spot; a wound that has yet to heal in Draco Malfoy, and Theo doubts it ever will. Especially after their looming marriage. Especially after the inevitable _divorce_.

“Thanks for inviting us out,” Theo says, dredging the words up from somewhere deep inside. Harry and Ron nod at him, a bit begrudgingly.

Theo finds himself on the street outside the Leaky Cauldron, Luna close behind him but not touching. The golden trio has already apparated away, and the night seems quiet without them.

“Are you ready?” Luna’s voice is gentle, and a smile still plays about her lips. She had fun tonight; it’s obvious in the way the slightest hint of a dimple shows on her cheek.

“For what?” He asks.

“To go home?” She tilts her head at him, and pleasure rushes through him at the thought that she considers Nott Manor _home._

“Don’t… don’t you want to go to your flat?” 

She frowns briefly, “No.”

Theo doesn’t let her even question herself. He lunges forward and wraps his arms around her, and they are apparating instantly. If Luna Lovegood is mad enough to think of Nott Manor as home, as Theo Nott as the man she _chooses_ , well, who is he to stop her?

They land in his study — he can apparate anywhere on the property through the blood wards; guests have to go to the front door. Soon enough, Luna will be part of the blood wards and have the same free rein as him.

She doesn’t extricate herself from his arms when they arrive, either. She lingers, her fingertips splayed over his chest. He tightens his grip.

“I had fun tonight.” She tells him, a little soft, a little unsure.

Theo can feel himself half smiling at her. “Me too.”

She reaches a hand up to press her fingers gently to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. Theo finally lets go of her to reach up and clasp her face, mirroring her actions.

“I don’t want to go home,” Luna tells him.

“You don’t have to,” he replies, “just stay here. Stay as long as you want.”

She laughs, and his entire world brightens. “Stay forever?”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “I’m going to kiss you, now.”

She’s still laughing as he presses his lips into her smile.


	13. Malfoy Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is shorter, so I will be posting the next chapter probably tomorrow to make up for it! Hope you are all having a good week :)

* * *

_  
October 31st, 1999 - Sunday_

* * *

Taffy alights on his perch beside Draco’s desk. His library is cozy, the fire blazing to combat the window that has been left open for his owl. 

“Hi Taf,” Draco greets the owl, running his fingers gently down the closest wing. Taffy preens under the attention, ducking his feathered head to press into Draco’s hand. It’s easy for Draco to lets the owl do so, content to wash him in affection.

The letter affixed to Taffy’s leg can wait a few moments longer. 

He’s nervous — despite having no real reason to be. He had been the first to write since Granger had abruptly shown up at Malfoy Manor in pyjamas two days prior. He had felt somehow he owed her that. She had dragged herself, obviously unwillingly, to his house, to _apologize._ The way she had looked; half panicked and crazed, as though Bellatrix could be hiding in any shadow.

So he had sent a note upon waking — not even a letter. A simple question about grabbing coffee at a later date was hardly worthy of the name. 

Finally, Taffy has had enough of his attention and shoves his talons out, allowing Draco to take her response. His owl promptly curls his head away, ignoring his master.

Draco unrolls the parchment, watching as Granger’s messy scrawl hits his eyes. It had been a surprise the first time to realize that she was messy. It was as though her hand couldn’t keep up with her thoughts; each letter Draco opened covered in smudges and crossed-out phrases, so at odds with his perfect penmanship. It’s almost endearing.

_‘_ _To Malfoy,_

_I’d like that. I also would like to ask if I could borrow any books you may have on pureblood marriage contracts. The older the better. Would that be alright?_

_I met Theo Nott yesterday. Luna brought him out to meet up with Ron, Harry and I. We_ _were surprised_ _to see him, but it went well. He_ _does seem_ _to like her — you were right. They really… they really seem like the WPG isn’t a problem for them. As though they’d marry each other either way. It was… odd, but nice, I guess._

_As well. I would like to invite you to Harry’s wedding. It’s on November 6th. I was hoping you would attend with me. Let me know if that works for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_ _’_

Draco reads the letter twice and then nearly laughs. He wonders what he might have said if he knew one day he would not only be attending Harry Potter’s wedding, but he’d be attending as Hermione Granger’s _date_. 

He summons two different rolls of parchment and immediately begins writing a sarcastic missive to Theo, asking about how his night with the Gryffindors and his future bride had gone. Though he knows he’s being a bit of a prat, Theo knows him better than anyone, and he’ll understand. 

“Juney,” Draco says.

His house-elf appears instantly, blue eyes staring. She’s the only house-elf he’s ever seen with such vivid blue eyes. House-elves aren’t very common outside the walls of Hogwarts, so Draco hasn’t seen many. Growing up, the Malfoy’s had always had three elves, which was more than most households could claim. One from the Malfoy line to serve Lucius; Dobby, set free by Potter in their second year. Then two from the Black line — one who had disappeared suspiciously under Bellatrix’s reign.

Juney, however, had been a Black family elf for years, sheltered from Bellatrix by serving his mother. Narcissa had been fond of the little elf and had demanded no one else call upon her. Juney had doted on his mother until the day she died, and now the elf continued to serve him as the last living Black.

“Master Malfoy,” Juney greets, bowing low. Her huge ears are held back by a bright pink knitted bow.

“Could you take this to the Nott household?” Draco extends the letter he’s written for Theo. “You may visit with Thelma for a while if you wish.”

Juney takes the letter and smiles tremulously. “Thank you, Master. Juney misses Thelma. Juney won’t stay long.”

Draco waves her off, and she disappears.

‘ _You didn’t thank her._ ’

Draco presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to force Granger’s words from two nights prior out of his brain. Juney _knows_ he finds her helpful; she has served his family for years and is _glad_ to serve him now after his mother has passed. There is no need for thanks.

He shakes his head as if to slough the thoughts away, grabbing his wand to _accio_ a few tomes he knows are on his shelf. It’s hardly a comprehensive pureblood study, but Granger can start with the three he has handy.

He puts a weightless charm on them and slides them into a bag. Picking up a quill, he heaves a sigh.

_‘Dear Hermione,_ _’_

He scratches it instantly, a muttered _incendio_ reducing the parchment to ashes. 

One more time.

‘ _Dear Granger —_

_I have included a few books that may be helpful. I have more, so let me know what you may need. As for Theo, well, I think you may be right. When you finally tear this whole WPG thing apart, they may just stick together. It’s bloody mental, but I suppose there are worse things._

_Although I never thought I would see the_ _day_ _I would attend Potty and Weasel’s wedding, I would be happy to be your date._

_Speaking of dates. Do you want to set one?_

_Regards,_

_D_ _._ _M_ _’_

He hates the _dear_ with every fibre of his being, but he knows that his mother would have been horrified if he continued to address letters to his future wife with ‘ _to’._

He supposes there are worse things — Granger, despite being a know-it-all and a bit of a nightmare growing up, isn’t entirely horrible, as it turns out. One ‘ _dear_ ’ is hardly going to kill him.

Taffy, however, looks positively murderous at the idea of another flight. Still, his faithful owl allows him to tie the letter, and the lightened bag to her talons and takes off with only a single resentful _hoot_.

Draco spends the next hour summoning books from his shelves, reading up on pureblood marriage laws and wondering exactly what Granger is looking for. What loophole does she think she’ll be able to find?

Draco is about to retire to his room where he knows he’ll chase sleep. It’s rare that he gets enough rest — the Manor, once his beloved childhood home, is empty and gargantuan. His mother’s presence had filled up so many of the rooms; after the war, it had appeared she was the only spot of warmth left in the entire estate.

Without her, Draco is a caretaker in a graveyard of memories.

He hears a gentle hoot as his owl alights on his perch, annoyance easy to spot in his brilliant orange eyes. The letter on Taffy’s leg comes away easily, and the owl is smart enough to fly away instantly, seeking a roost far away from demanding masters and return letters.

_‘_ _To Malfoy,_

_Thank you for the books — I truly appreciate it._

_Yes — let’s set a date. Can we discuss it tomorrow at coffee? Java Corner again — 5PM?_

_Thank you for agreeing to come to the wedding. You should know I promised to hex you if you are a prat; so please, try to restrain yourself on that day._

_Yours,_

_Granger_ _’_

Draco realizes he’s tracing the letters: _y - o - u - r - s_. 

He can’t imagine Hermione Granger being owned by anyone or anything — the WPG, abhorrent for so many reasons, is suddenly something he hates fucking _fiercely_. 

He summons another book, forgetting entirely about sleep.


	14. A Better Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you all enjoyed the letters back and forth in the previous chapter. Honestly, this entire story idea was based on a desire to write a fic about Draco and Hermione sending letters back and forth, and just spiralled into this monster from there. 
> 
> Anyway, this is possibly my favourite chapter to date... so ENJOY! Your next update will come next Monday, and we'll be finally enjoying a wedding (though which one remains to be seen!)

* * *

_November 1st, 1999 - Monday_

* * *

Java Corner is busy. 

He slips inside easily, heading to the counter without hesitation. Granger is nowhere to be seen, though he is a few minutes early. He orders two vanilla lattes and settles himself into the same seat he chose the first time they met. Back to the corner, two exits in sight, his wand pressed against his leg.

He sips his latte quietly, and he waits. He’s good at waiting; at making himself invisible, no movements or twitching to give him away. The skill had been invaluable with the Dark Lord only a few moments away for the entire war.

He doesn’t begin to worry until he glances at his watch and sees Granger is ten minutes late. He’s known her for years, and despite their first meeting when she had been a few minutes behind, he’s never known her to be anything less than punctual.

It hits fifteen minutes past, and Draco is debating on drinking the latte he ordered for her and then leaving when she finally appears.

She looks… well, her hair is bushier than he’s seen it since the third year. Curls reckless and springing straight out into the sky. She’s got dark bags under her bright brown eyes, and though she’s sporting a half-smile, she looks like hell.

“What happened to you?” 

She frowns but sits in the chair in front of him all the same. He notices she twitches herself towards the window, turning so she can see the entrance out of the corner of her eye. She’d done the same the first time they’d met as well, keeping the exit in her eyesight.

“I beg your pardon,” she snaps. “Nothing happened, though I am sorry for being late.”

Draco huffs, “you look like you got in a fight with a bird. Your hair is insane.”

She flushes, a splotch of pink appearing high on her cheekbones, and Draco drinks in the sight of her. 

“You’re an arse, Draco Malfoy,” she hisses, “I… I just lost track of time.”

He realizes he’s antagonizing her, and though he appreciates how flustered she gets, it’s probably better not to insult your future wife’s appearance. He heaves a sigh.

“No, I mean… you look _fine_ , I didn’t mean it was bad.” He backtracks, sliding the latte a little closer to her in a peace offering. “I just haven’t seen your hair so… well, curly. Since school.”

She glares at him, and after a tense moment she reaches out to take her latte. She sips it, finding it lukewarm, and a bit of rage drains from her expression.

“Sorry I kept you waiting.” 

He waves the apology away. “It’s fine, I hope it’s not too cold.”

“It’s good,” she takes another sip, her nose crinkling in a way he’s embarrassed to admit is _cute_. “I didn’t sleep very much.”

“You don’t say,” he mutters, and though she scowls, she doesn’t reply. Instead, she opens the beaded bag he’s seen her carry everywhere and summons out three familiar books.

“Your books,” she slides them towards him, “they were helpful. I don’t suppose you have more?”

He can feel his jaw go slack, and it takes immense self-control for him to maintain his expression. He grabs the books and shrinks them down, sliding them into his jacket pocket.

“You… you finished them?”

“Obviously,” she sniffs, “which is why I look frightful, I’m sure.”

He wisely decides not to comment on her appearance again, and instead asks, “What did you find out?”

She lights up —

It’s exactly the way he remembers it.

Her hands come forward as if she can physically push the information at him faster than explain, and her eyes are sparkling. She’s half-smiling, even as she speaks; the pure _joy_ of knowledge and learning so obvious in her expression.

He’s watched her do this a thousand times. Since that very first charms class; Flitwick had levitated a feather, and there she was, glowing brighter than anything he’d ever seen.

“Malfoy, are you even _listening?_ ” 

Her voice drags him back to reality, and she’s scowling at him with another familiar expression. Annoyance paints across her face, covering years of hurt. She curls in on herself a little, shoulders hunching as if to take a blow. He wonders how many times she has tried to explain something, only to be torn down for being a swot. How many times was it _him_ making her feel inferior? Making her feel stupid for _liking_ things.

Almost unconsciously, he reaches out and traps her hand on the table. It’s steady, for once. Her glare is interrupted to stare at their fingers together.

“I’m sorry.” He sincerely is. “Tell me again.”

When she looks at him this time, she looks scared. It hits him like a fucking sledgehammer.

“Did you know that the Parkinson family is considered one of the best potioneering family's in Britain?” 

“Yes,” he frowns, “I did, actually. Why?”

“Neville Longbottom is the best herbologist I’ve ever seen aside from Pomona Sprout. Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about herbologists abroad… but does it seem… _convenient_ to you that she got placed with him?”

He can feel his brain kicking into overdrive; the same way she has probably spent the past day. Though no one would suspect it, Pansy was also an excellent herbology student. If Neville Longbottom was as good as Granger said, they would be a talented team.

If they managed not to kill each other first.

“Okay,” he allows, “that is… interesting. But what about the other matches?”

The fire returns to her eyes, “I can’t figure it out. Your books didn’t mention everyone. Did you know the Nott’s were renowned for Thestral breeding?”

“That was ages ago,” Draco warns. “Before Theo’s father got a hold of the business and sold it all away.”

“Luna… Luna is _very_ good with creatures,” Hermione mutters, “I know she sometimes seems to talk about make-believe, but she knows her stuff, mostly. I’ve seen entire herds of Thestrals follow her willingly.”

"That’s not enough evidence,” he argues, “to say that the Ministry is rigging these marriages for business purposes.”

She shrugs, “Isn’t it? They say they match us based on our compatibility in personality and magic. What does that even _mean?_ Why won’t they share the exact process? Kingsley needs the economy to pick up, and what better way than to pair up the perfect business associates?”

Draco scowls. “Give me another example.”

“I don’t have enough information,” she allows, “Dean Thomas and Katie Bell are matched.”

Draco winces at the memory of Katie, but he nods. “So they are.”

“They’re both excellent Quidditch players. In fact, Katie plays for the Falmouth Falcons.” 

“That hardly makes for an economic business powerhouse,” Draco scoffs, “there’s a lot of people good with a broom out there.”

Hermione smirks, “True. But did you know the Bell’s go way back? All the way to the _Ollerton’s?_ ”

Draco gapes, “Are you telling me that the Bell’s are somehow related to the Cleansweep Broom Company?”

“I’m telling you they’re a silent partner and own over 50% of the company.” 

Draco can hardly do anything but stare at her. She looks triumphant, sipping her latte and telling him information he should know. He _should_ know, because Malfoy Estate holds half of Nimbus Racing Broom Company, and the only competition they have is the Cleansweep Broom Company and the Comet Trading Company.

“How do you know this?” He demands.

Hermione clasps her hands and stares at him. Her eyes are golden in the sunlight streaming in from the window, and she looks ready to battle.

“I can’t tell you.” She says. 

He takes her in; the way she’s ready to defend this information. The way she’s ready for an attack, ready for him to doubt her. 

“Are you _positive_ the information is true?” He asks.

She nods. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “You may be onto something. We’ll keep finding things to link the other couples. Tell me, though. What about your Weasel and the girl?”

“Ron and Hannah?” She asks, surprised.

“Sure,” he finishes his now-cold latte.

Her brow crinkles. “Honestly? That’s where I’m stuck. There are so many pairings that seem to lean towards some influential match, but there are some that have _no_ rhyme or reason. Ron gets Hannah… they’re both nice, but I can’t find anything else. What am I _missing?_ Why are _both_ Greengrass’ tied to Weasley’s? Isn’t that _odd?_ Am I even making sense, Malfoy?”

Draco laughs almost unwillingly at her rambling. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Help me,” she asks, suddenly. Reaching her own hand forward to touch the back of his. She doesn’t linger, just presses gentle fingertips to his skin. The bracelet shines from her wrist.

“With what?” 

She laughs, “With taking down the WPG? You’re _smart_ , Malfoy. You can help me. Don’t deny it… plus, I know your library is huge.”

“Well, size matters,” he jokes, waiting for the inevitable blush. 

She goes scarlet, but snaps, “ _Books_ , Malfoy, I am talking about _books_.”

“Say I help you,” he says, “what’s in it for me?”

Hermione Granger scrunches her face at him, exasperated. She slams the last sip of her latte, and then nearly crunches the cup in her fist as she sets it down. It’s easy to tell she’s annoyed, and it’s such a _relief_. The last time he had seen her, she had been _scared_.

“What’s in it for you?” She folds her arms across her chest, “How about you get to rid yourself of an unwanted wife? How about you get to be _free_ again?”

Instantly his good humour is gone. He leans forward intensely and watches as her pupils dilate and her hand snaps to her pocket, ready to draw if he’s aggressive. Battle ready.

“Free?” He spits. “There is no such thing. Not anymore.”

Her expression softens minutely, “There is. There _is,_ Malfoy. He’s _gone_.”

Draco chuckles darkly, “Haven’t you ever heard that as long as you remember someone, they live forever? They become _a part of you_. I’m not forgetting _._ He got exactly what he wanted.”

He almost shakes his arm at her to stress his point, the wretched brand hidden under layers but still somehow a glaring difference between them. Her eyes have gone soft, nearly damp. He can’t stomach another moment of her crying.

“That’s a very muggle belief, you know.” She clears her throat.

Draco stares at her, watches as she composes herself. She stands abruptly, and he flinches so hard he hits the wall. 

“Another latte?” She asks, weakly.

He nods.

She returns only a few minutes later, stoic. He feels wrung out, but he knows his face gives away nothing. Taught by the best.

Hermione slides a fresh cup towards him, the foam in the shape of a little latte heart. It’s so _absurd_ he wants to laugh, but somehow it only comes out as a little choked sound.

“I know,” she mutters, “it’s stupid. They think we’re on a date.”

He glances over to the coffee baristas, their eyes watching them surreptitiously from behind the counter. He can’t imagine how they have seen Granger and him together and thought it was a date. He wishes he knew how to be the people they think they are.

“It is, isn’t it?” He says dully. “I mean. We’re getting married.”

She looks positively heartbroken. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?”

“Because I threatened Kingsley and somehow you got stuck with me.”

He sighs, “Granger, you’re not stupid, so stop acting like it. It’s not your _fault_. It’s the Ministry’s fault. It’s the Wizengamot. It’s the whole bloody _world’s fault_ , but it’s not yours.”

She smiles; it’s small, but it’s there. He’s never seen her smile at him the way she is now. His chest feels warm.

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs self-consciously, “It’s nothing. Besides — you’re not so bad. You’re not _unwanted_ , anyway. Could’ve been worse. I mean, have you _met_ Millicent Bulstrode?”

Hermione cringes away, and Draco laughs. He vividly remembers Millie bragging about ‘ _giving the_ _Mudblood_ _a beating_ ’ in the Slytherin common rooms on two separate occasions.

“You’re right,” she shares a conspiratorial grin, “I _am_ going to be a better wife than her.”

He can’t help it, he tilts his head back and laughs. Granger laughs alongside him — perhaps for the first time. Sobering, he watches her, amusement floating through him. 

“Will you do something for me?” Her question is unexpected, in the wake of their shared joke. 

Draco watches her. She doesn’t seem angry, or even sad. She seems — nostalgic, perhaps.

“Okay.” He agrees. If his father were here, he’d hex him into oblivion for agreeing to a deal without knowing all the details. A _favour_ in the Malfoy world was an unforgivable sin. 

Still — though he doesn’t _know_ Granger — he knows this. She won’t ask something he can’t give. She’s many things, but she is not cruel.

“Will you marry me in a muggle church?” 

He nearly drops his new mug of coffee, barely hanging on at the last possible second. Her face is as smooth and placid as glass, and he can’t tell at _all_ if she’s serious. 

His father would _murder_ him. His father would _avada_ him and then bring him back, only to do it again.

“You know that the Ministry won’t recognize it unless we go to them to get the paperwork there first.” He tells her, cautiously.

“I know.” 

He watches her — the way her fingers shake against her cup. He thinks about the way he had joked their wedding would be small, and she had agreed easily, only mentioning that she needed to invite Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. No parents. No siblings. 

“Okay.” He says.

Shock washes over her features, “Really?”

“Sure.” Agreeing is easier now that he can see how pleased she is. “Can I ask why?”

She plays with the bracelet he got her for a moment, avoiding his eyes and the question. Silence descends on them, but Draco waits. 

He’s good at waiting.

“My parents got married there,” she finally answers, “and I always said I’d do the same.”

He doesn’t ask about her parents — he’s not stupid.

“What if you want to get married again? One day?” The question falls out of him almost unwillingly, and something inside of him feels soaked in acid. 

Her brown eyes, calculating.

“You do _know_ that Malfoy’s don’t divorce, don’t you? Ever.”

He swallows. “Yes. I suppose I’ll be the first.”

“Malfoy. The sanctity of your blood wards are _based_ on this. Half of your magic and estate is powered by—”

“Granger,” he snaps, “I think I _know_ how my family works.”

Her lips turn down, displeasure coating her voice. “We don’t have to divorce. I can just quietly move out and move away — I don’t want you to—”

“Granger,” he slaps a hand on the table. “Stop. I’ll figure it out. Drop it.”

He’s known Granger long enough to know by the stubborn set of her mouth that she’s not letting this go. Still, she is silent, and he takes advantage of her momentary pause.

“Send me the name of the church,” he demands. “I’ll take care of the Ministry papers. Is the Sunday after next acceptable for you? It’s November 14th.”

She nods, “I can help, the Ministry forms are a nightmare! And, oh, they’re so _expensive.”_ Her voice has gone slightly panicked and high pitched, and for the first time in this entire conversation, Draco Malfoy feels in control.

“Granger. You forget already?” He laughs and her eyes snap to him. “I’m Draco _Malfoy_. Of all things to worry about, money isn’t it. What’s mine is now yours — you’re _rich_.” He knows he sounds sarcastic, as if she’s some gold-digging nightmare after his fortune. He _knows_ that isn’t what she is — and even if she were, he honestly doesn’t care about the money. Granger could spend exorbitantly for the entirety of their marriage and it would hardly affect Malfoy holdings, but it’s so ingrained in him to watch for fortune hunters. He can practically hear Lucius in his head right now — _mudblood gold-digging whore —_

“Oh good,” her voice interrupts, “so you’re saying you have an account at Flourish and Blotts? Can I charge to it?”

He looks at her — she’s _smirking_ — and he realizes he’s suddenly got an inside joke with Hermione Granger. She loves books. She loves books, and he has an enormous library and he’s rich and any book she could ever want could be _hers_ and suddenly it feels like Draco can finally do something fucking right.

“Yeah,” he’s too serious for her joke, “Yeah. Charge it. Buy the whole damn store if you want, Granger.”

Her eyes soften a little, humour gone but something else remaining. “Perhaps I’ll settle with just the Centaur Fiction section. Someone has to save the remaining populace from ignorance, right?”

Draco laughs again.


	15. The Cozy Cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for all your kind comments and kudos :) This chapter is a large one, clocking in at 6400 words. Also, please be reminded that this story deals with a lot of PTSD and trauma regarding the war, and Hermione deals with panic attacks. Take care of yourselves when reading and mind the warnings. 
> 
> Saying that, I really hope you all enjoy this one! The next chapter should be posted next Monday.

* * *

_November 6th, 1999 - Saturday_

* * *

Ginny is resplendent.

Her dress is ivory; with a plunging neck and lace detailing down to the small of her back. There are no sleeves, and her long red hair is pulled back into a crown, laced with delicate forget-me-nots and white wisteria. 

Molly fusses over her, tears occasionally overwhelming her. Ginny is patient and allows her mother to flit about with nerves, worrying over some minor detail or another. 

Hermione is wearing a mulberry coloured dress. It’s long and fitted, with small cap sleeves. It’s pretty — and it will match Harry and Ron’s navy dress robes well. She’s got a small bouquet and greenery to match Ginny’s larger one, and Hermione knows that the wedding is lovely. The wedding is _happy_ — so unlike Astoria and Charlie, who had married at the Ministry only two days prior. Astoria had been the picture of beauty — clear blue eyes and long blonde hair. She’d worn black. Charlie had kissed her on the cheek and disappeared back to work after depositing his wife at home. 

Hermione had a feeling they hadn’t spoken since; perhaps until today, where they were seated together with the Weasley’s.

“Hermione?” Molly Weasley is watching her, sadness in her eyes. Hermione summons a smile from deep inside and crosses the room to the Weasley women. 

“Sorry,” she says, “I was a bit lost in the moment. You look lovely, Gin.”

Ginny grins, “Thanks, Mione.”

“Umm, I have a gift for you,” Hermione digs in her beaded bag and pulls out a small box. 

Ginny opens it to reveal a very delicate silver necklace, with a sparkling diamond pendant. It’s small and lovely, and Ginny gapes at the expensive stone.

Hermione rushes to explain, “It’s a muggle thing, you see? We say when we get married we need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I knew you’d have blue flowers,” she gestures to the forget-me-nots placed in her hair. “And you borrowed Fleur’s wedding shoes.”

Ginny is still staring, and Hermione twines her hands together nervously. 

“Hermione,” Ginny finally speaks, “I know this chain. The chain… it’s yours. You’ve worn this for years.”

Hermione sighs in relief, “Yes. I’m glad you noticed. Something old — I got it when I was a little girl.”

It had been her grandmother’s, and though Hermione feels naked without it, she is honoured to gift such a thing to Ginny. It should go to her — it should always go to family, and now it would.

Ginny’s eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, “Mione… this necklace is _important_ to you. And this diamond is… a lot.”

Hermione laughs, “I confess… the gift is from both me and Malfoy. He bought the diamond.”

Ginny snorts, “Malfoy got _me_ a gift?”

“Well,” Hermione hedges, “he doesn’t exactly _know_ I charged it to his account, yet.”

Ginny stares at her, then bursts into laughter. “Hermione Granger — you’re _evil_. I love it.”

Hermione impulsively hugs her, and she sees Molly Weasley watching them out of the corner of her eye. 

“Ginny,” Molly breathes. She approaches them and raises one hand to rest gently on Ginny’s face. “You are so lovely. I couldn’t be happier for you — and I wish you a lifetime of joy.”

Ginny sniffs and hugs her mother tightly. Hermione watches with a lump in her throat. God, how she _longs_ for her mother.

Molly Weasley pulls away, “Okay. Go get your father — it’s time to head downstairs. Harry will be waiting.”

Ginny springs into action at her mother’s words and heads for the door, an eager smile on her face.

Hermione turns to Mrs. Weasley, expecting to see the same warm smile that had been there only moments before. 

Instead — instead she sees _heartbreak_.

“Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley murmurs, “my darling.”

Hermione feels her breath catch, “Mrs. Weasley?”

Molly Weasley straightens her spine and reaches out for Hermione’s hands. Her expression is infinitely gentle. “Hermione — you are as much a daughter to me as Ginny. I would do anything, _anything_ to give you the same happiness as her.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley, it’s okay,” Her voice is shaking. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” Molly says sadly, “of course you will. You’re strong. That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. I have a gift for you, as well. For your wedding.”

Hermione holds the large box Mrs. Weasley produces from seemingly nowhere in her shaking hands, watching tears drip onto her skin. She opens the lid slowly, exposing champagne coloured fabric.

“Mrs. Weasley is this—” she cuts herself off.

Mrs. Weasley tuts, “My wedding dress. It’s not quite the style, I’m afraid — but it’s yours if you’d like to alter and wear it. Ginny wanted something new, and I thought you might like to have—”

Hermione throws her arms around the Weasley matriarch, great gulping sobs becoming unhinged from her chest. The wedding dress spills half out of her fingers, the box long forgotten, and Mrs. Weasley holds her gently while she cries her heart out.

It’s only after Hermione stems her tears that Mrs. Weasley detaches herself. Her eyes are wet, but she clears her throat and waves her wand, restoring the dress to the box, and righting Hermione’s hair and makeup with only a charm.

“All fixed, dear.” She clears her throat. “I’m glad you like it.”

Hermione nods, “It… it means more to me than I can ever say, Mrs. Weasley.”

Molly finally looks at her — familiar eyes burrowing straight into her soul, and a strange smile on her lips. She says nothing though and instead gestures for Hermione to head out the door. Hermione shrinks her present down and puts it in her beaded bag and heads out of the room.

Somehow — and she’s not quite sure why she thinks it — Hermoine has the strangest feeling that Molly Weasley knows exactly what she’s done to ensure Harry got Ginny’s name.

They make their way to where Ginny is standing, lined up outside a great tent in the front of the Burrow. It’s a similar setup to Bill and Fleur’s wedding; Ginny is peeking around the corner, showing Hermione flashes of strung up lights.

“You’re first!” Ginny reminds her, and Hermoine walks as the music starts. They practiced the night before, and Hermoine sets a sedate pace down the makeshift aisle. She doesn’t glance away — she’s terrified to meet the eyes of Draco Malfoy. Though she had invited him to the wedding, she has yet to see him since she has been trapped in the house getting ready until the ceremony started. 

Hermoine feels almost in a dream as she walks, and she seeks out Harry and Ron’s familiar faces. They are standing at the end of the aisle as they are supposed to be, looking handsome in navy dress robes. Harry is positively _beaming_ , and Hermoine allows the sight to heal her sore heart. Ron shares a grin with her, and Hermione imagines a time so long ago when she had dreamed of an aisle with Ron Weasley standing at the end.

Instead, she veers off when she reaches the small platform and allows herself to stand on her spot as the maid of honour, watching the entrance for Ginny.

A hush falls over the crowd as Ginny steps through the tent with Arthur Weasley at her side — she’s _glowing_. Harry’s eyes lock on hers immediately, and it’s as if she’s floating down the aisle. Arthur’s eyes are misty, and he kisses his daughter’s cheek gently before he shakes Harry’s hand.

How similar wizard weddings are to muggles — Hermione wants to tell Draco this.

She finally allows herself to look for him, finding him almost immediately. He’s sitting with Theo Nott and Luna Lovegood. He’s watching her with a smirk on his lips.

Hermione glances away, back to Harry and Ginny, cheeks scarlet.

The ceremony is short and simple; traditional vows said by both parties, with a Ministry official presiding. Most witches and wizards marry with a simple ceremony, though Harry and Ginny had requested a binding ceremony as well, which will unite their magical cores. While binding ceremonies increase the power of both individuals by bolstering their magic, it also carries a risk that both will die if one does. It was a common practice in marriages only a few generations back, and also how couples may go about creating traditional family-magic, an art that is less common as every year goes by. 

The actual ceremony is less intimidating than Hermione had imagined when they had described it.

Harry simply raises his hand to hers, and Ginny grins when they press their palms together. 

“Speak the word - _iungo._ ” The officiant says softly.

Harry goes first, “ _Iungo_.”

Ginny follows, but Hermione hardly hears her over the glow of their magic in their palms. Warmth descends over the crowd; an almost instantaneous joy. It's like being bathed in love.

The ceremony ends shortly after — Harry lunges towards Ginny and kisses her so hard they nearly topple over. Ginny laughs as it happens, and Hermione can feel tears determined to escape her eyes.

She almost wishes Kingsley was here — wishes he was here so he could see just what he almost _destroyed_. 

Molly and Arthur Weasley appear at the end of the ceremony and wave their wands, turning the simple pews into long tables, and the front stage into a dance floor. Food appears on the tables; a feast to rival one of Hogwarts.

Hermione makes her way to her date; Draco watches her every step of the way, and by the time she reaches the table, her cheeks are burning.

“Hello,” she greets.

Luna beams, “Hermione — what a lovely wedding. I can’t believe all the _nilfairies_ around. It’s a blessed union.”

“Umm, yes.” Hermione agrees. Draco’s smirk hasn’t left his face, but he pulls the chair out beside him for her.

“You look nice.” He says, and Hermione nearly falls off the chair she had so carefully sat on. She thinks perhaps that is the first compliment Draco Malfoy has _ever_ given her.

He frowns, as though her surprise is unwarranted, but before he can open his mouth and ruin it she blurts, “I got a dress.”

Theo Nott attempts to cover a laugh with his fist, and Hermione shoots him a glare.

“A dress?” Draco repeats, nonplussed.

Luna giggles, “She means a wedding dress.”

Hermione stares down at her plate of food, nerves stretching taut at the sudden absence of conversation at their table. Though music and laughter surround them, it seems almost far away. 

“Well, that’s — that’s good.” Draco finally chokes out, and Hermione looks up. He’s glaring daggers at Theo Nott, who is suspiciously looking away. 

Hermione swallows, “It… it is?”

“Yes,” Draco turns to her suddenly, “Of course. You should have a dress you like.”

Hermione stares at him for a moment; it has not escaped her notice that Draco Malfoy is being oddly compliant over their wedding. He’s already agreed to marry her in a muggle church, of all places — what more could she _possibly_ need him to give her for this sham wedding?

“Well, what do you want?” Hermione asks, suddenly.

Theo cuts off whatever he was saying to the table and looks at her. Draco is already staring. Luna seems amused.

“What… what do I want?” Draco repeats warily.

Hermione nods, “Yes. I mean — if I get a dress I want, and the location I want… well, what do you want? It’s your wedding, too, you know.”

Draco snaps his jaw closed. 

“Draco, mate, this is where you tell her you already got the bride.” Theo advises, cheeky grin present, “what more does a man need?”

Draco doesn’t seem capable of an answer, and Luna laughs suddenly. “Theo — look, people are _dancing_!”

Theo looks as though he’d rather be murdered on the spot by the way his jaw clenches, but he still stands dutifully and extends his hand to Luna.

“You’re going to dance with me?” She asks, blue eyes glowing.

Theo’s tense expression fades a bit. “If you like.”

“Usually I dance alone because there is no one to dance with me,” she tells him, but she eagerly grasps his hand and follows him to the dance floor.

Draco huffs a breath next to Hermione’s shoulder, and she realizes suddenly that they have been left alone at their little table.

She turns to him, “I don’t want to dance.”

“Okay,” Malfoy agrees easily.

“It’s not because I don’t want to dance with you,” she blurts.

Grey eyes study her at the words, and Hermione feels herself going red again. She can’t seem to control her damn _emotions_. 

She opens her mouth as if to explain why — as if to explain that she can’t trust her legs to follow directions or to tell him that the last time she danced at a wedding like this Kingsley’s Patronus had broken in and warned them moments before Death Eaters had descended. She remembers a dance floor, and screaming, and then _fleeing_.

She can’t dance here. 

Draco doesn’t let her speak. “Perhaps we’ll dance at home.”

“Home?” Hermione asks quietly.

Draco shrugs uncomfortably, “I suppose we should decide where that will be. As of next week.”

Hermione watches him — his jaw is tense, and his right leg is bouncing. He looks handsome; black fabric covering his broad shoulders. He had complimented her — he is _trying_.

“Well, I was thinking. Perhaps you could come to my cottage. After the wedding, I mean. Tonight.”

Draco’s eyes snap to hers, flinty grey and shocked. “Granger, you don’t have to — I mean. We can buy something else. That can still be _yours_.”

She thinks about it; she really thinks about the offer. Buying something new, something for them to live in together.

Hermione remembers how long it took her to feel safe again; how the only place in the entire world that she feels like she can set her wand down long enough to sleep is the little cottage she has warded against the world. 

“No,” she decides. “I would like to stay at my cottage. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

Draco nods slowly, “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

They eat quietly, comfortable beside each other. Hermione thinks about their conversation and the question she had asked. _What did he want_? He had requested nothing — not one thing since this whole damn thing started. Except to avoid the Prophet, and Hermione could hardly disagree with that. 

“I spent some of your money today,” Hermione confesses suddenly, guilt eating at her. She can hardly reconcile the fact that she’s feeling _guilty_ over Malfoy.

He snorts, “I know. I got the bill. Honestly, Hermione, spend the money. Buy your friends presents. It’s customary to get a wedding gift, anyway, so it’s good that you thought of it.”

Hermione watches him; watches for a hint of that angry boy. Watches for some sort of resentment to flare behind his eyes. Watches the way he didn’t say _Granger_ — the way Hermione falls out of him sometimes, as if he wants to say it.

The animosity is gone from his gaze. He looks… tired. A little worn thin, as if too much worry for too long has made a shadow of him.

She’s ready to say something; she’s not sure what. Demand, perhaps, that he tell her exactly what he is now, who he has become. Instead, Ginny and Harry appear as if from thin air, both smiling.

“Hermione,” Ginny greets, “and Malfoy. Thank you for the gift.”

Malfoy stands and unexpectedly extends a hand to Ginny, “You’re welcome, weaselette. Congratulations, by the way.” 

Harry frowns at the ‘weaselette’ but the lack of animosity in Draco’s tone seems to win him over, because when he extends his hand towards him, Harry takes it.

They both glance at their hands for a moment, and Malfoy laughs. “Guess we finally got here again, huh, Potter?”

Harry chuckles. “At least this time you’re less of a prat.”

Draco rolls his eyes, and Hermione stands to hug Harry.

He pulls away, and his familiar green eyes are soft and happy. He grins at her.

“Didn’t think we’d ever make it here,” he tells her softly. “Barely even dared to dream of this when we were in that tent.”

Hermione chokes down her tears and laughs, “Me neither. Let's never go camping again, okay?”

Harry sticks out his hand, pinky extended. An old muggle tradition — one they would sometimes use; just them. Ron never understood it.

“Pinky promise,” he agrees gently, his finger wrapped around hers.

Hermione leans against him and watches as he smiles. His eyes are magnetized to Ginny, returning to her no matter how far they move away. 

“Granger,” Draco’s voice calls her back to the present moment. He’s watching her again.

“Let’s allow these lovebirds to go greet the others,” he says, “and why don’t you show me around the… the Burrow.” 

He still has the barest hint of distaste in his voice at the title, but Hermione nods easily and follows him out of the tent. They wave goodbye to Harry and Ginny as they go.

The cool night air feels good against her heated face. Fall is leaving and winter is taking its place — the beautiful colours fading into greys and browns. Death all around.

The Burrow looms around them, and Hermione explains each window, and whose room they each hide. She takes him to where the boys and Ginny play Quidditch after most dinners. She even drags him out to the back pond where each of the summers between school years she, Harry, and Ron used to swim. He says nothing but follows her dutifully. 

The path has grown muddier with rain, and Hermione bemoans her less than practical heels. She stops and stares off into the fields — the sun has already set, but it’s a remarkable view in the daylight.

“Granger,” Draco says, “If you think the Ministry is pairing people off to boost the economy, why did they pair us?”

She laughs, but it’s harsh in her throat.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She answers. God — her voice. She sounds so _old_. 

“What?” For the first time since she’s known him, Draco sounds confused. That had been the most surprising thing about him, at first. She’d known he was smart in Hogwarts; but now, she knows that he follows her tangents and thoughts with no problems, as though he was on the same roadmap. He was _easy_ to talk to. 

“People who have an enemy in their bed aren’t worried about the enemy in power.” She answers.

Draco frowns. “You think the Ministry paired us so we would be so caught up trying to kill each other we wouldn’t try to take them on?”

Hermione shrugs. “Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Draco answers slowly, turning to face her. “It sounds possible.”

They look at each other. They’re not fifteen anymore, and there’s no naivete in their gaze. 

“Can you do wandless magic?” She asks suddenly.

Draco glances away, but he answers. “Yes.”

“I know you can cast a _crucio_.” She tells him. “How about an _avada_?”

She watches as his jaw clenches tightly, his silver eyes dropping away from hers. He nods. He looks locked in place, and Hermione supposes he’s waiting for all the inevitable questions — _when, where, who, how do you know._

“Me too.” She says, instead.

His eyes snap to hers. Hermione forces herself not to look away. He doesn’t ask questions either, and after a moment she sighs. 

“Malfoy. I suspect that I’m the third most powerful witch in Great Britain.”

She hopes he doesn’t think she’s bragging. It’s a statement; a fact. She’s good with facts.

“McGonagall?” He asks.

She nods. “Second most.”

Surprise flares in his eyes and Hermione can feel one side of her mouth curling into a smile. It’s no surprise he thought McGonagall; she’s Headmistress of Hogwarts, an animagus, one of Dumbledore’s closest friends, a long-time member of the Order of the Phoenix, and truly an extraordinary witch.

“Molly Weasley,” Hermione answers his unspoken question. “I know you wouldn’t expect it, but it’s true.

Draco laughs for a moment, but Hermione doesn’t let her expression change. She’s deadly serious, and his amusement fades slowly into a slack shock. “You think Molly _Weasley_ is the most powerful witch in Great Britain?”

Hermione nods. “Yes. I don’t just think it. I _know_ it. Just watch her, Malfoy. Watch her _closely…_ you’ll see it, too.”

Draco glances away, and Hermione knows he’s not convinced yet. It doesn’t matter — he knows the Weasley matriarch can hold her own. They’ve both seen her in battle, and the rumours that continue to circulate that she was the one to finally kill Bellatrix Lestrange are true. 

“Why does this matter?” He asks.

“I’ll tell you — I will.” She sighs and feels herself lean against him. It’s almost accidental… she’s just so _tired._ He stiffens, and for a heart-wrenching moment, she thinks he’s going to pull away and let her drop to the ground. Instead, he freezes, letting her lean into him. Her legs are shaking, and slowly — glacially — he wraps an arm around her waist, half holding her up.

It’s nice.

Something she never thought she would say about Draco Malfoy.

“Not right now?” He affirms, and she nods.

“Let’s just be happy for Harry right now. Let’s have one wedding that goes well.”

They stand there for longer than Hermione would like to admit, letting his arm grow heavier and more comfortable around her waist. The wind is cold, but she is mostly sheltered, and she imagines they are a thousand miles away, on a beach where no one knows who they are, and the war never happened. 

“We’re going to be on the Prophet, probably by tomorrow.” He warns her. “There were a lot of people in there.”

“Most are loyal,” she tells him, “but you’re right. I suppose it’s time.”

She pulls away, feeling slightly adrift without the anchor of his arm. It would be too easy to get used to being held up. She looks at his face in the near twilight; his eyes are calm when he looks back, and Hermione realizes she isn’t waiting on him to hurt her. 

She doesn’t think he wants to hurt her. She doesn’t think he will.

“I think I’d like to show you my cottage, now.” She says. “But perhaps we should go say goodbye to Harry and Ginny.”

“And Theo and Luna,” Draco adds.

They head back toward the tent, and when Hermione’s heel slips in a bit of mud, Draco catches her elbow. She doesn’t pull away.

The bright light of the tent blinds her momentarily; music and laughter drifting out. The crowd has dwindled a little, but most are still around, dancing together or drinking overflowing wine glasses. 

They head towards where the crowd is mingling, and it parts slightly to show Andromeda Tonks née Black.

It’s unfair; Hermione _knows_ Andromeda is Nymphadora Tonks’ mother. She knows that she is the grandmother of Teddy Lupin and is raising him, that she fought for their side in the war, that she is _kind_.

It never helps — the moment she sees her Hermione always freezes. This time she lurches herself towards Draco, hand digging for the wand hidden in her dress. 

Draco steadies her, though his palms curl around her shoulders and his fingers bite into her skin. He sees it too — he _has_ to.

Andromeda is slight. Her black curly hair is wild about her shoulders, and her face is a near replica of Bellatrix Lestrange. The only difference is her eyes are always filled with warmth and sanity. 

Once, Hermione had ended up curled under the sink in Grimmauld Place’s bathroom when Andromeda had been visiting with Teddy and laughed unexpectedly. Andromeda’s laugh — though not the maniacal cackle of Bellatrix, was so eerily similar Hermione hadn’t been able to stand on her shaking legs for nearly an hour. 

Andromeda disappears; swallowed up by other bodies, but Draco remains. Hermione is practically shuddering in his arms, and if the Prophet didn’t have enough to write an article on them, they will now that they’re entwined at the edge of the dance floor.

“Granger,” Draco’s voice seems far away, “breathe.”

Hermione sucks in air and holds it, counting to ten. She breathes out heavily. “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Draco snaps, gentling his fingers on her shoulders, “it’s okay.”

“She just—” Hermione’s voice cracks, “she looks like—”

“Stop,” Draco murmurs, “I know. I know what she looks like.”

Hermione flinches. She supposes he does.

He steers her gently forward, avoiding the place they had seen Andromeda. Hermione catches her breath and finally feels in control by the time they find Ginny and Harry. They are standing surrounded by Weasley’s, including Ron and Hannah Abbott. Hermione suddenly feels as though they are all caught up in separate gravities — similar but being torn apart by their own pull.

Neville was invited, but he is nowhere to be seen. Hermione thinks he may have skipped entirely. Astoria Greengrass is still sitting at her table with a scowl fixed on her pretty face. Percy and Daphne seem to be keeping her company, though Charlie is nowhere to be found. 

“Mione,” Ron greets happily, his smile falling only a little at the sight of Malfoy’s hand tucked under her elbow. Hannah Abbott is beside him in an emerald dress; though her outfit is pretty, her eyes are red and splotchy. 

“Weasleys,” Malfoy greets amicably, perhaps the first time he has gotten the name correct since she met him. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Arthur replies, extending a hand for a shake. “It is nice to meet you properly. It’s been a few years.”

Draco nods. “Indeed. This is a lovely wedding.”

Mrs. Weasley has a simpering smile on, and she pats his arm gently. “So nice of you to come, dears.”

“We’re about to head out,” Hermione mentions, wondering how long her adopted family and future husband can remain civil. “I’m a bit tired.”

Ron glowers predictably, but instead of arguing he simply says. “You’ll miss George, Mione. He promised to show after dinner — apparently he’s bringing Parvati.”

“He missed the ceremony?” Hermione’s shock is palpable. Though she had known George had been absent since the WPG announcement, she never expected him to skip out on Ginny’s wedding.

Ron shrugs despondently.

“Oh, I hope he comes. You must give him my love, though, Ron.” Hermione insists. Her legs feel like jello.

“We will,” Harry assures her, butting in when it seems like Ron won’t answer.

Ginny hugs her again. “Of course. And thank you again, _both of you_ , for the beautiful necklace.”

“Of course,” Malfoy replies smoothly, “it looks lovely on you. Congratulations again.”

“Thanks,” Harry says — sincerity flowing through him this time.

“I see Theo,” Draco murmurs to Hermione, “I’ll just pop over to say goodbye. Will you be alright?”

“Of course,” she answers, bemused. He seems to have said it out of some sort of ingrained courtesy, but it’s appreciated nonetheless. He disappears quickly.

“Hermione,” Ron says the moment Draco is out of earshot, “tell my you are _not_ taking that git to your cottage.”

Hermione snickers. “I am, Ron. I’m actually showing him around our future _home_.”

Hannah laughs unexpectedly, and Hermione glances at her. “Hi, Hannah.”

She blushes and raises her fingers to her lips, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. Hi Hermione.”

“How are you?” Hermione asks — it’s only polite to ask, and she is expecting the flimsy _fine_ that everyone else gives. 

“Bit shite,” she says, “but Ron here is alright.”

Ron chuckles and shares a glance with her. They seem friendly, though Hermione wonders how long it will take to build into resentment. How long a marriage that hinges on a _law_ can last. She supposes the same question must be asked of each of them.

“Wait,” Harry says, “did you say you were showing Malfoy your future _home_?”

Hannah frowns. “That’s why I laughed. You think Malfoy is going to leave his stupid castle?”

Hermione grits her teeth — she reminds herself that Hannah is _hurting_. 

“Yes, I do think that,” she bites out, “since we’ve agreed we will live in my cottage.” 

Ron goes wildly pale, but Harry lets out a huff of relief. “Oh, thank Godric. You won’t have to stay in the Manor?”

“No. He said he’s fine with living wherever. He mentioned buying somewhere new for us, but my cottage is… well, it’s safe.”

She says the words a touch defensively, and though Harry watches her with sad eyes, she knows he understands. Grimmauld place had to be warded again with a new _fidelius_ that had taken ages once the war had ended. He’d practically gutted the place the moment they had deemed it safe — removing any unwanted memories he could and replacing them all with bright light and clean furniture. 

“It’s been a truly beautiful wedding,” Hermione clears her throat, changing the conversation. “Harry and Ginny — thank you for having me.”

“You’re our family,” Ginny says simply, and Hermione clasps her hand. Ron begrudgingly nods from beside her. Hannah looks sullen.

“Granger,” Draco’s voice interrupts their moment. “You ready to go?”

She nods and waves to her little makeshift family. Draco leads her carefully out of the tent once again, clearing the entrance for an easy apparition.

He’s got his arm around her waist again, and Hermione wonders when it happened. She doesn’t mind — her brain feels almost as shaky as her legs. She slips her own around him.

“I’ll have to side along you.”

He nods. “I figured.”

She swallows hard. A few moments go by where nothing happens.

“Granger.”

“What?” She snaps.

He sighs. “We don’t have to go to your cottage. You don’t have to take me.”

She grits her teeth — how she _hates_ it. The sound of pity in his tone. She rips them away, the crack of apparition ringing in her blood.

They land outside of her front gate. Her cottage is dark. She’s breathing hard, nearly gasping.

It takes a moment before she finds her courage, but it’s there, right where she left it.

She swings the gate open and marches for the front door, confident that Draco will follow her. 

The cottage lights up at her presence; magic infusing her lamps. The fire roars to life, and Hermione feels the wards surround and press down on her from all angles for a moment. It feels like being hugged.

Malfoy must feel it too because his breath quickens and when she turns to stare at him standing in her doorway, he is wincing. His expression clears quickly.

He takes it all in — the small living room with the overstuffed armchair she favours and the couch. Fireplace burning easily, with a bookshelf beside. Her dining table is small; space enough for only four when it’s cleared off. Currently, there are piles of books stacked high on every spare inch of the table. The kitchen is spotless, and her hallway to her office, the bathroom, and her bedroom is dark.

“Well, this is it.” She announces. She’s suddenly self-conscious — though she hated Malfoy Manor, she knows exactly what Draco is missing. He has a ballroom; he has a solarium and multiple libraries and _peacocks_. She has wards and an armchair.

“I have some books I’m fond of,” he tells her, “and I must bring Taffy. Juney can stay at the Manor, but we must allow her access inside the wards.”

Hermione frowns. “What?”

Draco huffs. “Well, if I’m to live here, Granger, I’ll need a spot for my favourite books and my owl.”

They stare at each other in the firelight; Draco expectant and mildly annoyed, and Hermione terrified.

“You… you still want to live here?”

His expression clears suddenly, and he steps forward slowly. “Granger. _Hermione_. If you think I have some attachment to the Manor, you’re wrong. If you want to live here, then this is where we’ll live. It’s cozy.”

“It’s small, you mean.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s _cozy_. And it’s safe.”

“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “That’s my favourite part.”

His expression softens a bit, and he holds out a hand. She’s vividly reminded of Theo Nott doing the same thing for Luna Lovegood only earlier that evening. Almost unwillingly she goes forward and takes it, letting his hand dwarf her fingers. She looks almost delicate in his grip. She hasn’t felt delicate since the fourth year when Viktor Krum had lifted her mid-dance.

“Why don’t you show me your office. I know you must have one. Do you have a garden?”

She nods, but instead of speaking leads him down her dark hallway. Her office is a disaster, but he smiles slightly when he sees it, as though it’s what he expected. She shows him the unexpectedly large bathroom with the huge clawfoot tub that takes half the space. The garden is last, the door at the end of the hall.

It’s dark outside, but she casts a _lumos maxima_ and he takes in the flower patch and the bench. The small shed, and the little table and chairs on a small brick patio.

“We could get a hammock, perhaps.” He says.

“Okay,” she whispers. So desperate not to break the peace.

They close the door, and she slowly opens the last door, the one she had ignored on the first tour. Her bedroom is large — the closet half empty.

He takes it in — she knows he sees _everything,_ the way her bed is pressed up against the corner wall closest to the window, with jars of bluebell lights on the windowsill permanently lighting up the dark. The way her blankets are thrown haphazardly over every part of the bed as if she had spent the night running inside of her own sheets.

Her nightstand holds two pictures — one is non-moving, two muggle people smiling for a camera. The other is Hermione sandwiched in between Harry and Ron, snow coating their heads.

Other than a single book on the nightstand, the rest of the room is spotless — there are no personal traces to be found.

“My room,” she announces unnecessarily.

He stares at all the blank space and then turns back to her. She is tugging on a curl with shaking hands.

“I think we could put a rug in here, maybe.” He says mildly.

Hermione looks at him, the furrow between her brows smoothing out suddenly, relief pouring out of her.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” She asks.

He frowns at the question; she doesn’t see what he could possibly be confused about. It’s obvious that he’s gone out of his way to be civil and make her comfortable since the WPG was announced. It’s out of character — she believes he has changed since the war, but she can’t imagine it’s this much. Has he become this person who will live in a small cottage with a wife he doesn’t want? A wife who can barely hold her own weight up over the course of one evening?

“I’m not really sure,” he answers slowly, “but I think that maybe I put you through enough hell already. Don’t you?”

Hermione watches — she’s never been good with people. Better with books and learning and cleverness; Harry and Ron are her closest friends, and she still doesn’t know how she managed that. 

“I suppose so,” she whispers in the stillness of the room. 

Malfoy’s silver eyes never leave hers. “Listen, Granger. You asked me what I wanted. I want you to not hate me. If it’s possible.”

“I don’t hate you.” It’s the truth. 

He nods. “Okay. Good. That’s good. Then let’s have a tea and you can sit down.”

Hermione abruptly realizes she’s on the verge of collapsing, and she dutifully follows Draco back to her kitchen. She sits on one chair and watches him rummage around until he finds some mugs and the kettle.

They exist in silence, and Hermione focuses on the wards all around her. They feel strong; undisturbed, even with Malfoy inside.

She opens her eyes slowly when Draco sits on the chair across from her. She waves a wand and her book piles relocate to the floor, allowing them the smallest amount of table space. He sets their mugs down.

“Theo and Luna are going to the Ministry to get married tomorrow,” Draco murmurs.

“What?” 

Draco shrugs, “They mentioned when I was saying goodbye. They need two witnesses and asked if we would be willing. I said most likely yes, but I’d confirm later since I wanted to ask you.”

“Why don’t they want a wedding?” Hermione frowns, sipping her tea. “I know that they’re being forced by the WPG, but they actually seem okay with it. Seems like they’d want that.”

Draco’s shoulders are stiff with tension. “Any wedding Theo Nott has will be vilified. He’s trying to keep Luna out of the papers as long as possible. I’m actually surprised nothing was written when he appeared at the Leaky with her last week.”

Everything suddenly clicks in place in Hermione’s brain.

“That’s why you’re okay with us getting married in a muggle church.”

Draco shrugs. “I would have done it either way if it was what you wanted. But since you wanted a muggle wedding anyway, it will be better for you in the long run.”

“You think the public will hate me. If I’m a Malfoy.” 

Draco sips his tea silently for a moment.

“I think they’ll initially pity you,” Draco sets his cup down with slightly too much force. “Married to a _monster_.”

Hermione can see it all now as he describes it: Hermione Granger, the golden girl, saviour of the Wizarding World, forced to marry Draco Malfoy, _Death Eater._

The media will pity her — they’ll outrage and cry for her and whisper her name as though taboo. They’ll eagerly read every scrap of news, waiting for something worth gossiping about; waiting for her to show up with bruises, or perhaps waiting for a body. 

“And when they realize I don’t think you’re a monster?” Hermione asks — she knows the answer, but she wants to hear Draco say it.

To his credit, he’s honest. He huffs a laugh, though there is no humour in it.

“Well, _then_ they’ll hate you. They’ll probably hate you more than they even hate me, because in their eyes, I’ve always been evil. You’ll have _betrayed_ them.”

She wraps her arms around her chest. Her tea grows cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an additional note, please be mindful that this story follows the events of canon, but often times I have exaggerated or added in more to the canon, especially regarding the events of the war. An example of this would be when Hermione is discussing casting crucios or avada's.


	16. The Secret Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for being so patient with this chapter. I have been having some trouble with a hand injury as well as general holiday-time relaxing, so writing has been slower than normal. I'm still a few chapters ahead and should be back to regular weekly posting now. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and enjoy this chapter :) 
> 
> Also, hope you are ready to read about a lot of weddings. This chapter follows the last immediately after but from a different POV. A brief warning: mentions of alcohol and dependency in this chapter.

* * *

_November 6th, 1999 - Saturday_

* * *

Parvati is wearing blue. The restriction she had set for him only a few days prior does not extend to her. Her floor-length dress is a royal blue, and her long black hair falls in waves to her hips. She’s wearing a crown of gold pinned into the back of her hair, and a delicate chain hangs from her nose piercing to her ear.

Her left-hand holds a shine of gold laced into a complicated lattice design that extends almost to her knuckle, a ruby emerald as the centre setting.

“George,” she murmurs, “your family is going to react poorly.”

George chuckles, “You didn’t need to be a Seer to know that.”

Parvati rolls her eyes, but he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. He feels strung out; Parvati had practically moved herself in after the moment she declared she had saved his life three days ago. All the alcohol in his flat had mysteriously gone missing, and every moment George had considered going to sneak more she had appeared as if from thin air.

He’s never felt worse, though she has kept him supplied in pepper-up potions and hangover remedies.

George finds his way to his family easily — Ron’s voice is getting louder as the evening progresses and the alcohol flows.

“Hello mum,” George greets, amused at how fast his mother’s head turns. Her eyes go wide and get the shine that means she’s moments away from tears.

She always looks that way when she looks at him.

“George Weasley,” Molly exclaims, “I cannot believe you missed your only sister's wedding.”

George grins, “Imagine what she’s going to say when she finds out she missed mine?”

Ron, half a goblet of wine at his lips, nearly chokes. “What?”

Although most of the family has met or seen Parvati Patil at some point during all their years at Hogwarts, George still tugs her forward.

“Meet Parvati Weasley,” he pats her left hand that is tightening on his bicep, drawing attention to her ring. “My bride.”

Parvati sucks in a breath a moment before Molly Weasley bursts into tears. Her hand covers her mouth to hold back the sound, and George watches her extreme reaction. Ron is beside Hannah Abbott and both of them seem surprised.

“It’s lovely to officially meet you,” His father pulls his expression together long enough to reach forward and shake Parvati’s hand. “Welcome to the Weasley family.”

Parvati smiles shakily in the face of all the tears and surprise. “Thank you, sir. It’s an honour to be here.”

George pats her hand again, torn between feeling like a terrible son and amusement. His mother still has tears leaking out of her eyes, though she seems to be calming. Ron steps forward a moment and half-waves at Parvati. “Good to see you here. Glad another Gryffindor joined the ranks.”

Parvati laughs, “I suppose it’s a welcome change from all the Slytherins.”

“George told you about all the matches?” Hannah asks.

Parvati pales for a moment, but George leaps to the rescue. “‘Course, I told her. We’ve been hitched a whole two days. No secrets here.”

Ron watches him dubiously, but they are saved from further questioning by the appearance of Ginny from the other side of the tent. Harry is trailing behind her, rather love-struck. Ginny is beaming, happiness radiating from her in a way that is a balm on George’s soul.

If there is anything left in this world to be grateful for, it is that Harry and Ginny got matched up.

“George!” Ginny cries and launches herself into his arms to hug him. George wraps her up tightly and does his best not to mess up her hair because any other day in the world he would happily annoy her, but not on this day.

“Ginevra Weasley,” he greets, “you’re looking well.”

Ginny smirks, “That’s Ginevra Potter to you.”

He snorts, but he can feel a smile coming on. The first in ages. Spontaneously, he reaches out a hand and tugs Harry Potter in and hugs him right over the top of his sister, tangling all their limbs. Gratitude bubbles up inside of him.

“Harry, my condolences on the ol’ ball and chain,” George mutters.

Harry laughs, “Pretty sure I walked into this one with eyes wide open, but thanks mate.”

Ginny rolls her eyes at their words. “Way to make a girl feel the love. Parvati, it’s good to see you again.”

Parvati nods to Ginny, but Molly has somehow gotten herself together and despite being red-faced, she clears her throat and cuts in, “I’m sorry, Parvati, dear. It wasn’t you that has me so upset. It’s truly lovely to meet you.”

George sniffs, “Blimey, mum, way to make my wife feel welcome.”

Parvati elbows him hard, and George frowns at her. Before he can say anything, Ginny’s voice interrupts, shrill and shocked.

“Your what?”

“We got married,” Parvati half-whispers to her, wiggling her hand to show off her ring.

“George decided to not inform the family,” Molly snaps, throwing a death glare at him. He shrugs good-naturedly.

“Blimey, mum, you have like four weddings this week. You’ll survive missing one.”

Arthur Weasley, bless his soul, clears his throat and says: “We’re just glad you’re all here. Can I get you a drink?”

George opens his mouth eagerly, but Parvati Patil sniffs demurely and says: “We actually don’t drink anymore, but thank you.”

George snaps his mouth closed and glares at her. She doesn’t even spare him a look.

It does not escape his notice that his mother’s expression has warmed infinitely, and Ron is even smiling into his goblet. He sets it to the table behind him and nods at George.

“That’s good, mate.” He tells him, and George feels warm with his youngest brother’s praise. “There’s some roast beef if you’re hungry, though.”

They chat with his family for a few more minutes before they finally lead them to a table for dinner. Parvati sticks close to him, and George avoids the goblet at the end of the table in favour of pumpkin juice. Eventually, a slow song begins and Harry and Ginny go to dance together, Molly and Arther following. Ron offers Hannah a hand and although neither of them seems thrilled, they both make their way to the dance floor.

“That went well, I’d say,” George announces when they are alone again.

Parvati snorts, the first unladylike sound he’s ever heard her make. “Yeah, that was the exact way little girls dream of meeting their husband’s family.”

He’d have to be deaf to miss the sarcasm in her tone.

“It’ll probably be worse with your family.” George intones morosely, stabbing at his Yorkshire pudding.

Parvati laughs at his pain, “Actually, on the contrary. My family already likes you, and they already know we eloped so you have nothing to fear.”

“How do they know?” George demands.

“Unlike you, I talk to my parents,” Parvati replies, “but also they hardly question my decisions anymore considering I usually know the consequences before anyone else.”

George scowls, “Maybe we should have told my parents the whole Seer thing. Then they wouldn’t be able to say anything.”

Parvati blanches, “No! No, George, I told you—”

“I know,” George interrupts gently, “I know. I won’t tell them. It’s okay. They wouldn’t hurt you, Parvati.”

“I know,” she whispers after a moment, “I do know that. It’s the first rule, though — the first thing any seer ever says in any of their teachings or writings. Don’t tell anyone.”

George stares at her almond eyes and thinks. He’s not a stupid man, and he’s not naïve, either. He knows exactly how far some people would go to discover the nature of a Seer’s power. At best, she’d be executed for her knowledge. At worst, she’d be used and tortured for information.

In the hands of Voldemort, she would have been a weapon of mass destruction, even young and uncontrolled in her powers.

“Why did you tell me?” He asks her. He’s wondered before, but in the whirlwind of the last few days and trying to find his footing, he’s never asked.

Parvati smiles at him, a dimple flashing on her cheek. “I didn’t if you recall. You guessed.”

George rolls his eyes, “That hardly counts, you gave me so many clues.”

She shrugs good-naturedly, and they both watch the dancing couples on the stage. Parvati looks a bit morose, and he feels guilty for not asking her to dance, though he doubts she would have accepted.

Parvati’s hand settles on his arm unexpectedly, “I’m sorry for snapping, earlier.”

“It’s fine,” George answers, half smiling. “I get it. Perhaps you’d let me have a drink as a real apology.”

Parvati laughs, “Not for another 3 months and four days.”

“What?!” George drops his fork and whirls to face her, “Not even one firewhiskey?”

Parvati frowns, a bit bemused. “Nope. Not a drop.”

“So what changes in three months?” George finally asks, curiosity winning out.

She raises one sculpted brow, “Can’t tell you.”

He flicks his napkin at her, and she laughs. It’s nice, having someone to laugh and joke with again. Parvati is funny and beautiful, and perhaps in another life, George would have appreciated her properly. As it is, they’re friends, and she seems okay with that.

Better than the alternative, George supposes, watching the way a few of the couples at the wedding are glaring daggers into their soon-to-be or recently wed spouses.

“Oh,” Parvati gasps suddenly, “Oh dear.”

George is on his feet with his wand drawn instantly, scanning the area for any threats. Parvati has gone pale, but George can’t see any reason for it at the wedding.

“Malfoy can’t —” Parvati chokes the words out, and George finally realizes she’s not seeing something at the wedding. He collapses back into his chair beside her, wand still clenched in his fist.

“C’mon, Parv, talk to me,” he tells her, reaching out to grab her hand where it has formed claws.

She flinches at his touch, and a tear spills down her cheek. “Oh. Oh, Malfoy shouldn’t drink the champagne. No! George, you’ll tell him, won’t you? No champagne! Tell him, tell HIM.” Her voice is rising in hysteria, and though she has called George’s name, she hasn’t yet looked away from the candle her eyes have caught upon.

George lets go of her clawed hands and grabs her shoulders, shaking her probably more roughly than he should. Her wide eyes snap to his.

“Stop,” he commands, “look at me. Malfoy isn’t here. Do we need to get a hold of him right now?”

Parvati is vibrating with tension, her every muscle ready to snap. George gentles his fingers on her shoulders and lets them sweep down her arms, finding her elbows. Her eyes seem to be stuck to his the same way as they had been on the candle.

“Parv, do we need to get Malfoy right now?” George asks again.

She shakes her head. A tear slips down her cheek.

“Do you want to leave?”

She shakes her head again. “No.”

They stare at each other, at a bit of an impasse.

George has been exceedingly curious about how Seers work, peppering Parvati with questions over the past few days. She has tried to answer him, though often he doesn’t understand the way she explains what she sees. Sometimes, he just hates the answers she gives him.

“I saw Malfoy drinking champagne,” she finally exhales. “He was angry. I saw him take a drink from this small crystal flute, and then he was laying in a grave. Hermione was there but wrapped in chains, and we let her lay down in the hole beside him and then we packed it with tiny little stones the size of acorns. Right on top of them.”

George swallows hard. “We buried her alive? With Malfoy’s corpse?”

“You know it’s not so simple,” Parvati whispers, “the visions are never straightforward. It doesn’t mean that we literally do that.”

“But it could,” George argues.

Parvati turns her head away, shoulders slumped. She doesn’t argue again.

George scans the wedding again, letting his eyes linger on the guests. People have begun leaving slowly, but there’s still quite a crowd. Harry Potter’s wedding has been one of the most anticipated events of the last decade, and people are jubilant. George watches as his parents dance together, smiling and murmuring to each other, too quiet for any other ears. It’s nice — he hasn’t seen them like this in so long. It’s hard to remember sometimes; the way they were before the war.

It’s hard to remember any of them before the war.

Harry is laughing into Ginny’s hair as they talk to Andromeda Black, Teddy Lupin running around at their knees. Ron is near them, beaming. Hannah Abbott looks out of place, standing a little too far away to truly be part of the circle.

“That girl,” Parvati says, “is cursed.”

“Yeah. Ron’s a good bloke, but she’s been in love with Neville for years.”

Parvati swats his arm, drawing his eyes away from Hannah Abbott. His wife looks cross, and George wonders what he could possibly have done to annoy her.

“Not her,” Parvati scowls. “I know who Hannah Abbott is, George. That girl, over there. By herself.”

As subtly as he can, George looks to where Parvati has tilted her eyes, and he finds Astoria Greengrass. Weasley, now, or so he has been informed.

“That’s Astoria. She married my brother Charlie this week. I don’t think they’re getting along.”

Parvati lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug, her black hair spilling off of her skin. “It doesn’t matter. The marriage won’t be a long one.”

George snaps to attention, “What do you mean? Is the WPG failing? Who is taking it down? Should we fight?”

Parvati stills, her spine going ramrod straight. “I’m so sorry, George.”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, “It’s not that. I wish it was that. I wish I wouldn’t have said anything, this isn’t your burden to carry.”

“Tell me,” he snaps.

Parvati closes her eyes, seeming to focus simply on the feeling of the table under her palm and the weight of his glare. “She’s sick. I don’t even know her and I can see it from here. It’s coiled around her blood, all over her. She probably knows.”

George stares hard at Astoria, trying to see what Parvati can see, but it’s invisible to his eyes. She looks fine, beautiful even; though she’s obviously miserable, staring at the tent flaps as though looking for an escape, even as she sits alone at a table.

He scans the room — though he has yet to meet the Greengrass sisters; he has heard of them from Ron. Charlie had married Astoria only a few days prior, and they had about as much in common as Snape had with Trelawney. Still, Ron had mentioned that the one thing that they did have in common was that they loved their siblings. Wherever Astoria went, Daphne was sure to be.

George finally spots her on the dance floor, wrapped in Percy Weasley’s arms. Although they had been matched by the WPG, Ron had mentioned they were actually getting on well and were planning on marrying within the week.

“George,” Parvati’s voice is hesitant, and he turns back to her. She looks sad.

“What?”

She sighs, “You really promise you won’t wear blue?”

“Parv, I swear to you. No blue. Besides, it’s not even my colour.”

Parvati’s smile is barely there. George reaches and takes her hand, running his thumb over her wedding ring. She’d chosen it, and George had been grateful she was making this easy on him. Other than the forced sobriety — that is hell.

“Tell me,” he murmurs gently, “tell me what you see when I wear blue.”

Parvati goes pale, and George wonders if he should have asked her. She won’t talk about it, though. Hasn’t mentioned anything about it.

“Your hands,” she chokes out.

“You see my hands?”

She nods, staring down at the hand tucked in hers. “Covered in blood. You’re staring down at them — screaming at nothing. I see nothing else, I just feel it. So much death. I’m scared, George.”

George squeezes her hand. “Well, that’s easy. Let’s go home and burn everything blue I own.”

“Okay,” Parvati agrees easily, solemn and watching him. George snorts at her simple acceptance. He wonders if she hates weddings as much as he does.

“Have I mentioned how glad I am that you were okay with eloping? I’d eat my own bloody puking pastilles if I had to attend another one of these.”

Parvati lets out a giggle, and George is glad her mood seems to be improving. “Bad news, my sister is marrying Blaise Zabini in two weeks and we’re invited.”

George groans, "A Slytherin wedding? First, you take my alcohol, and now you take my dignity.”

“You didn’t have any of that to begin with,” Parvati jokes, “and you’ll thank me about the drinking, eventually.”

George rolls his eyes, “I know they say don’t bet against a seer, but Parvati Weasley, I’ll bet you ten galleons I never thank you for this torture.”

Her smile is a secret over her water glass.


	17. Thestrals and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments! My hand is slowly on the mend and I've been getting back into the groove of writing a bit after the holidays, so more updates to come. At the risk of being far too excited, I have to tell you this is my favourite chapter so far because I'm admittedly obsessed with Theo and Luna... so enjoy! 
> 
> The next few chapters will be dramoine-centric :)

* * *

_November 7th, 1999 - Sunday_

* * *

Sunshine streams into Theo’s eyes and he slits them open against the glare. His curtains are wide open, showing off the blue sky and rolling hills behind the Manor. He pushes his blankets off of him and rolls off his bed. Though he often enjoys a long sleep in, today is _not_ the day.

Today is the day he gets married.

“Thelma,” Theo calls, and his house-elf apparates into his room with a startling crack.

“Good morning, Master Nott. How can Thelma be of service?” 

“Did an owl arrive from Draco Malfoy this morning?”

Thelma nods enthusiastically and produces a letter with a snap. “Juney brought it to Thelma this morning, Master Nott.”

Theo smiles down at the little elf. “Thank you. Could you get out my best dress robes?”

“Of course, Master.” Thelma chirps.

“Thelma,” Theo stares down at the little elf he is so fond of. “I have a favour to ask of you. This is _not_ a command, it is a favour.”

Thelma’s yellow eyes grow even wider and her ears twitch. “May Thelma ask… what… why does Master Nott require a favour?”

Theo grins, feeling almost foolish. “Thelma, today I am marrying Luna Lovegood. I was hoping you would do me the favour of picking some flowers from the garden for her and going to her flat and helping her get ready as she needs?”

His house-elf bursts into tears, “Of _course_ , Thelma will take care of everything.”

Theo nods, almost nervous in the face of his house-elf’s weeping, but she raises her hand and disappears with a snap, leaving Theo with an envelope from Draco.

> _“Theo,_
> 
> _Granger and I will be at your Manor at 3PM._
> 
> _Congrats,_
> 
> _DM”_

Theo tosses the letter onto his bed and heads into his shower. He scrubs himself down, lingering longer than usual in front of the mirror to make his hair stay flat. Theo nearly doesn’t recognize himself. His green eyes are brighter than normal, and he has almost a crazed look on his face. Theo wonders if this is what he looks like when he’s happy.

He almost wonders if Luna will even recognize him, but dismisses the thought instantly. 

She’s been staying at the Manor most nights for the past week. They spend their evenings walking in the gardens or sitting in his study. She likes to perch on the window seat with a book and get lost in her own thoughts for hours at a time while he runs through his account ledgers. 

Sometimes they sit together by the fire and talk. Sometimes, when Luna gets sleepy, she’ll reach her hand out and lead him into his room; she curls towards him under his covers, a parenthesis to every question he’s never asked. 

The first time she had done so, Theo’s heart had nearly galloped out of his chest. He’d stared at her face from across the pillows, wondering if he should reach for her or stay still. Wondering if he’d somehow cross some line in his sleep and then never see her again.

She was always there when he woke up.

Theo finally emerges from the bathroom to find a tray of a small breakfast and his dress robes on his bed. He sits and eats before he thinks about putting on the robes, knowing that Thelma has probably already left for Luna’s flat and wouldn’t be there to help if he spilled on himself.

After he dresses, he cleans his entire room. Three days prior, he had emptied half of his wardrobe so that Luna would have space if she wanted it. He takes a walk down to the gardens and then goes far beyond. There are stables beyond the gardens, and Theo marches towards them, throwing open the door. 

Though the stables have sat empty since before Theo’s mother was alive, as of yesterday, they are no longer empty.

Inside are two Thestrals; glossy black mares that nicker when he approaches. They’re still young, and he had _fought_ the Ministry over the rights to have them. The Nott’s have bred Thestrals for generations, and his father was an exception to the rule, barely a blip in the extensive line. They’d still kept up their paperwork and warding and it had forced the Ministry to accept his decision to once again resume the Nott’s Thestral affiliation. 

“Hello girls,” Theo greets them. The last time he had been around Thestrals in this stable, he’d been a boy and hadn’t been able to see them. His mother had to take him gently towards them, laying his hands on their flanks, allowing him to stroke the invisible coats.

Theo can see them now.

He wonders who his mother had watched die to see them back then. She’d never told him; had never even mentioned that death was the reason she _could_ see them and he couldn’t. He’d assumed it was an adult thing, seeing as his father could see them as well.

Despite their frightening appearance, Thestrals are known to be quite gentle with their masters, and though he is new to these mares, they are still curious. They press against him, seeking affection and treats, and Theo summons food to fill their troughs.

He hopes Luna will like them; though, he’s almost certain she’ll be thrilled. As far as he’s seen and heard, Luna’s never met a creature she didn’t immediately love. 

Besides, Theo had wanted to once again breed Thestrals under the Nott name since after his father died, and somewhere along the way he had lost the passion. Luna had reignited it.

It’s only 1:30 PM by the time he returns to the Manor, and Theo doesn’t have any further tasks to distract him. Luna isn’t supposed to arrive for another hour and Draco and Hermione after that. By that point, Theo’s afraid he’ll have paced himself into the ground.

“Master Nott,” Thelma’s voice startles him, and he whirls to face her. 

“Thelma,” Theo gasps. “What’s wrong? Why are you here? Where’s Luna?”

Thelma raises her hands out gently, “Mistress Luna is fine. She is ready to see you.”

“Oh, well, good.” Theo exclaims, “please bring her here!”

“Close your eyes!” Thelma demands. Theo has never heard his house-elf demand anything in his _life_ , so he automatically shuts his eyes tightly, even when he hears the distinct _pop_ of an apparition.

The silence is deafening in the moments after, and Theo fights every instinct he has to open his eyes, to assess threats, to scan the area.

“Theo,” Luna’s sweet voice.

He opens his eyes to a _vision_ —

Luna is standing in his foyer, sunlight shining down on her from their front bay windows. Her dress is an off-white cream with golden stars woven into every inch. It drapes across her skin, giving the impression that she is _glowing_. 

Her long blonde hair is woven intricately, baby’s breath and leafy green vines winding in and out. She looks like nothing more than a goddess of the forest, stepping out into starlight.

“Luna—” 

He can hardly choke words out. He just stares and stares and _stares_ until he’s sure he’s somehow fucked it all up because what kind of _idiot_ stares at his future wife when she looks like the _sun_ and can’t say a thing.

“You like it,” Luna announces easily, smiling at him. 

It releases something inside of him and he finally steps forward, close enough to raise a hand, gently brushing his fingertips over the gossamer threads covering her collarbones.

She laughs. It sounds like music.

“You _really_ like it.” 

Theo frowns; his first of the day. “I don’t know how I get _this,_ Luna.”

“It’s easy,” she tells him, reaching out to lace her fingers with his. “You just accept it.”

“Okay,” Theo whispers. What else is he supposed to say?

“You look handsome,” Luna tells him, her cheeks turning pink.

“You have put the sky to shame.” He doesn’t even know where the words finally come from, and he can feel himself flushing. Poetry and the written word has never been his thing; Draco could write sonnets out of scraps, but Theo has never met a blank page he wanted to fill. 

Luna’s blush extends down to her chest, and it suddenly suffuses Theo with _heat_. He reaches up and wraps his hands against her jaw, gentle and sure. He leans forward and presses his lips against hers, feeling her pulse beat rapidly against his palms. He has kissed her before — 

He wants to kiss her until the world stops.

“Luna,” he murmurs when he pulls away, “I have something to show you.”

“A gift?”

Theo shrugs, “Sort of, though I did it for me, too.”

“The best kind of gift,” Luna assures him. “Where is it?”

“Outside. I don’t want your dress to get dirty.”

Luna tilts her head, “Oh, it won’t. I have charms on it.”

Theo extends his arm and Luna slips her fingers through it, her starlight wedding gown draping over his dark dress robes. He’s staring down at it for a moment, wondering why it seems so important that they paint the entire galaxy into the night of his robes.

Luna doesn’t rush him, and after a moment Theo shakes his head of his fanciful thoughts and leads her towards the gardens.

“Oh, I got your flowers,” Luna tells him. “Thelma put some in my hair, and the rest are in our room.”

Theo misses a step, “Our room?”

“Of course,” Luna laughs.

Theo has imagined it a thousand times since he had met Luna Lovegood officially two weeks ago. His room suddenly filled with books and unusual items and unique clothes, and Luna. Laughter in the hallways that had always been frightening. One-day children that run around and create messes and are only scared of make-believe monsters that can be banished with something so simple as hugs.

 _Merlin_ — Theo wonders if he would have done things differently if he had known that _hope_ like this could exist. 

They reach the stable shortly, and Luna’s head tilts towards the sunshine, blue eyes wide. It’s an expression he’s come to recognize: she’s curious.

He opens the doors and the Thestrals whinny gently at the new person. Theo isn’t stupid enough to ask Luna if she can see them — the war had answered that question for everyone he knows.

“Oh,” Luna walks forward, “hello.”

There’s no fear present; she marches towards the Thestrals as though she is welcoming old friends. They nudge their skeletal heads at her gown, allowing her to wrap her arms around their necks and pet their glossy coats. Theo feels as though he is watching _magic_ — deeper than the kind he has always known.

“Theo,” Luna marvels, “how did you get Thestrals?”

Theo smirks, “Nott’s have always bred them, for generations. My father was fool enough to sell off our last herd, but we have maintained the Class XXXX restriction for their breeding and domestication. These were filly’s from the Hogwarts herd.”

Luna’s eyes are shining, and she leaves the Thestrals only to launch herself towards him. He barely catches her, wrapping his arms around her frame. She’s laughing.

“Theo,” she can barely catch her breath, “this is the best day of my life.”

“You haven’t even married me yet,” Theo protests.

Luna finally sobers and stares at him, blue eyes seeing _everything_. “I know.”

They take their time returning from the stables. Theo leaves the door open, allowing the Thestrals free range within Nott properties. Thestrals rarely leave their home, but even if these wanted to the Manor wards would keep them in.

They are at the edge of the garden when Thelma appears again. “Master Nott, Master Malfoy and Mistress Hermione are here.”

“Please show them in, Thelma,” Theo grins. “We’ll be right there.”

Thelma disappears easily, leaving them alone again. He turns to Luna and watches how she toys with a rose blossom at her side, gentle fingers on the petals.

“Last chance to run.” He’s aiming for a joke, but somewhere along the way, it has lost its humour.

Luna’s lips curl at the corners, “I don’t want to run.”

Theo watches her solemnly. Her gaze never wavers; bloody Ravenclaws, who would have thought they could be as brave as Gryffindors?

"Alright. People are going to stare when we get to the Ministry. I’ve asked for a private room, but people will still know.” He gestures at her stunning gown; there’s no way they’re getting away without the front page of the Prophet with her wearing such a wedding dress. He can’t bring himself to regret it; the sight of her is going to be burned in his memory for the rest of his life.

Luna smooths a gentle hand down his dress robes. “Then they will know, and I’ll be glad all the same.”

She tugs him forward, and they head into the Manor. 

Hermione and Draco are waiting in the front room, standing a careful distance from each other. Malfoy is wearing dress robes, and Granger has a periwinkle blue dress on that flares out gently at her waist, falling to her knees. Her hair is tied back into a neat chignon. Theo doesn’t think he’s ever seen it look so tidy and controlled.

“Hermione,” Luna greets, leaving Theo’s side to embrace the witch.

Hermione returns the hug, “Luna, you look… beautiful.”

Luna pulls away and gives a little spin. “Thank you. Thelma helped me get ready.”

His house-elf appears at her name, looking bashful. “It was Thelma’s greatest honour, Mistress Luna.”

Theo watches as Hermione’s face scrunches slightly, and he fervently hopes she has the sense not to say anything to Thelma. He’s heard of her crusade for the house-elves.

“You are a good elf,” Hermione says instead. Thelma's little body seems to vibrate under the praise. It’s been a big day for her.

“Well, shall we be off?” Theo asks.

Draco hesitates for a moment, briefly stepping closer to Granger. “Yes, but before we go, we’d like to invite you to our wedding.”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees nervously, “It’s next week. November 14th.”

Luna’s smile is breathtaking, “Hermione, of _course,_ we’ll be there. Are you inviting D.A?”

Hermione flinches almost imperceptibly, her movement not lost on both Theo and Draco. “Hardly. Just Harry, Ginny and Ron. You and Theo. I suppose I _should_ invite Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, though she didn’t seem to expect it.”

“We’ll invite all the Weasleys, Granger. They should be there.” Draco’s face is set in a scowl, though his words ring truthfully.

“Perhaps Blaise and Padma?” Theo suggests, “I haven’t seen Blaise in _ages,_ and I don’t think I’ve ever met Padma.”

Draco glances at Granger with the unspoken question and she answers easily, “Maybe. Parvati might be there anyway if we invite George. She’d probably like to see her sister. I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, Hermione, I’m so happy for you!” Luna exclaims, squeezing Hermione’s forearm. 

Granger’s expression flickers with pain for a moment, then settles on gratitude. “Thank you, Luna.”

Theo watches this exchange. He’s never been sure what to make of Hermione Granger, and Draco has been unwilling to discuss her on more than one occasion. He wonders if she’s bearing this WPG and marriage with barely concealed pain, or if it’s _more_ than that. 

He’s surprised to see her even attempting to go along with the WPG — he’d been _sure_ she would fight. He’d been so sure she’d fight it until the very last moment, perhaps even going on the run once again. Somehow he doesn’t like that Hermione Granger is bending. 

He wonders what’s changed.

“Ready, Granger?” Draco’s voice drags him from his thoughts, and he watches his best mate extend his elbow to the witch he had once called _a nightmare._ Granger takes his arm easily, as though she’s done it before. Theo thinks his mouth may be hanging open.

Luna’s gentle fingers on his elbow drag him back to reality.

“Let’s go.” He walks them all to the Floo, suddenly glad he had insisted that the fireplace be scrubbed down. Luna’s dress is still somehow a clean cream colour.

“The Ministry of Magic, second floor.” Theo declares, throwing down the Floo powder.

They arrive at the Floo station on the less busy second floor, and Theo marches with Luna towards the marriage offices. There’s a lineup at the window, and he can see people pointing. They make a bit of a spectacle, reformed Death Eater Theodore Nott and Order of the Phoenix member Luna Lovegood. It doesn’t help that they’re being trailed by Malfoy and Granger.

Theo noticed though that they aren’t walking together. Hermione is behind them, head held high. Draco is almost ten feet behind that with a stony expression on his face.

If Theo didn’t know better, he would assume they still hated each other, only he had been with them moments before and they had been perfectly civil.

He wonders how long they will keep the WPG rumours at bay. The Daily Prophet would have a _field day_ with the news that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had been matched.

They reach the door that leads into the small private courtrooms that hold elopements. Theo holds the door for Luna and their two guests, and is immensely grateful there’s no one else inside other than a witch at the counter. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” She greets.

“Theodore Nott,” he answers, “I have an appointment for a marriage ceremony today.”

She nods professionally, waving her wand and summoning a scroll. She signs a few lines and slides it to him.

“Please sign here. Is this Miss Luna Pandora Lovegood?”

Luna blinks widely. “Yes?”

She slides the paper towards Luna, and Luna signs with a flourish.

“The officiant is in the room, down the hall on the left. Your guests can follow you in.”

The room they enter is on the smaller side and contains a small altar with an older gentleman standing behind it. He has a neat moustache and a crooked tie, and when Theo hands him the paper he and Luna had signed, he doesn’t even blink. His unflappable air suddenly endears him to Theo.

“Witnesses?” He asks.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger,” Draco announces easily. Hermione glances at him, surprise flickering across her face.

“Very good,” the man says, then gestures towards each side of his small alter. “Please, Mr. Nott, stand here with Mr. Malfoy beside you. Miss Lovegood, over there, Miss Granger beside her.”

They arrange themselves in a loose triangle, and the officiant clears his throat. Theo is staring at Luna, suddenly terrified she’ll apparate from the room and never return, even though there are anti-apparition wards in the Ministry.

Luna, oblivious to his fear, watches the officiant. She shows no signs of fleeing.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. We are here today to tie Mr. Theodore Matthias Nott in matrimony to Miss. Luna Pandora Lovegood. Marriage is a source of strength in troubled times, and may nourish not only each other, but the surrounding community. We at the Ministry continue to hope that your union will be blessed with care, respect, and a mutual appreciation. Thank you for joining us today. Will those of you who are present today, surround both Theodore and Luna in friendship, offering them both your support throughout their marriage?”

He turns abruptly to stare at Draco, who shifts uncomfortably before saying, “I will?”

The officiant turns to Hermione, and she answers before he repeats the question. “I will.”

He nods and then reaches out, taking Luna’s hand gently and pulling it across to where he has grabbed Theo’s. He lets their hands clasp lightly.

“Mr. Theodore Nott, do you take Miss. Luna Lovegood as your lawfully wedded wife?”

Theo wonders if his hand is sweaty before he blurts, “I do.”

“And Miss. Luna Lovegood, do you take Mr. Theodore Nott to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Luna’s cheek dimples as she smiles. “I do.”

“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Theo tugs Luna’s hand gently, and she floats towards him. He leans down and kisses her, his hands somehow finding her waist in all of his nervousness. 

He pulls away only slightly, setting his forehead on hers. She’s grinning.

“I’ll have you all sign the certificate of marriage now.” The officiant produces a fancy-looking paper on cream cardstock. It’s got gold embossing and the Ministry emblem on the right-hand side. Theo signs it in a shaky hand, his signature looking pathetic next to Luna’s penmanship. He notices that Granger has even more abysmal writing than he does when she signs one of the witness lines. Malfoy’s is perfect.

“Wands.” The man taps his own to the emblem, and it glows briefly. Luna doesn’t hesitate to do the same, so he follows her lead. 

“Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Nott. You’re married in the eyes of the Ministry.” The man says, performing a quick spell to duplicate the certificate. “I’ll be filing this at the marriage office, and this copy is for you both to keep.”

Luna takes it gently, staring at the writing on the page. She turns to Theo after a moment.

“I didn’t know your middle name was Matthias.” She tells him.

Theo tenses. “It was my father’s, and it’s better left forgotten.”

She nods briefly. “Pandora was my mother’s name. I haven't heard anyone say it in so long.”

Theo wraps his arm around her waist, leading her out of the room. They reach the front desk, and Theo sighs. There’s a crowd outside of the door, and it isn’t difficult to spot Rita Skeeter at the front of it, floating quill at the ready. He’s abruptly glad the Ministry charms windows to be opaque, so the crowd hasn’t noticed them yet.

“Perhaps you and your wedding party would like to take advantage of our private floo?” The receptionist says unexpectedly. “It won’t take you outside the Ministry, of course, but if you floo to Miss. Granger’s office, you might have a few moments free.”

Theo turns to watch a blushing Hermione thank the receptionist by name and abruptly remembers that Granger _works here_. It’s no wonder the receptionist knows her.

“The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is on the third floor,” Hermione tells them, “and I don’t have a private floo, so there will be a few people there. Once we exit the department, turn left. There’s a Floo Station only a little farther beyond.”

“Thank you,” Theo says.

They head through the small fireplace, following Hermione as she says “Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures” and disappears through the flames.

Her department is far more chaotic than the previous, and as soon as Theo steps out of the floo he can hear multiple people greeting Granger.

“Hi Donna,” Granger replies, “we’re just stopping by on the way to the Floo Station. A bit of traffic on the second floor.”

Donna, an older witch with bright orange hair, stares straight at Theo and Draco as though Voldemort himself has come back to life in front of her.

“Oh, my,” she murmurs, her hand creeping up to grab at her heart. “Hermione — that’s —”

Hermione steps towards the door, “Yes, Donna, this is Theo Nott and Luna Lovegood, friends from Hogwarts.”

“Mal — Malfoy…” Donna’s words seem to have left her.

Hermione glances back casually, and sniffs casually, as though she has just noticed Draco Malfoy, _known Death Eater_ , has followed them out of the floo.

“Mr. Malfoy, yes,” Hermione nods, “Theo’s good friend. We must be off, Donna. Lots to do. Please ensure you get that report on Selkie migration on my desk by tomorrow morning if you could.”

Donna nods stupidly, and Hermione breezes past her, opening the door and allowing Theo, Luna and Draco to exit first. She shuts the door with a snap, and Theo wonders if she’s annoyed at Donna’s treatment of them or the fact that she had to drag them through her workplace. He wonders if she realizes just how much gossip she’ll be at the centre of now.

“Thank you,” he says again, this time a little more earnestly. “They’ll be talking about you, you know.”

Hermione Granger, the _brightest witch of her age_ , shrugs. “Don’t you think maybe I’m used to that? My best friend is _Harry Potter_.”

Draco coughs, and Theo suspects he may have been covering a laugh.

He suddenly wonders if pairing Granger with Draco was such a good idea — he didn’t realize how snarky she was.

“Besides,” Hermione Granger pins him with possibly the most conniving, Slytherin grin he’s ever seen. “That selkie migration report isn’t due for _weeks._ She’ll be scrambling to get it done.”

 _“_ Serves her right for being so nosy,” Draco mutters.

Luna laughs, and Theo can only stare at the Gryffindor witch in surprise at her cunning.

They arrive at the Floo Station with only minimal stares, though Theo knows the crowd that waits only a floor below will be here within moments.

He takes Luna’s hand and tugs her into the fireplace with him. Draco watches him, a smirk playing on his face. 

“Come to the Manor,” Theo invites. “We’ll have a Firewhiskey.”

Draco nods, “We’ll be there.”

Theo throws down the powder, spinning away with Luna at his side. They arrive in their main foyer only moments later and step out. Theo knows they have seconds before Draco and Granger arrive, so he turns to Luna and winds both arms around her waist. 

She’s still smiling.

“Luna Pandora Lovegood,” he murmurs, kissing her in between syllables. He doesn’t even have any other words to share with her, but he can’t seem to stop his movements.

Luna laughs into his kiss, “It’s Luna Pandora Nott, now, actually.”

Theo feels fit to burst; he wonders how people _do this_ , just accept that there’s a whole other person walking around separate from themselves who seem to carry the key to everything.

He wonders if Luna knows that she’s everything.

“Luna —” he says.

His floo flares to life behind him, and he pulls away just slightly, enough to face Granger and Malfoy, who step through together. He would have paid galleons to watch them navigate floo-ing together from the Ministry.

He’s still got one arm around Luna’s waist, but Draco extends his hand and Theo reaches his free one out to clasp it.

“Congrats, mate,” Draco says, before turning to Luna. “Lovegood — err, Nott, now, I suppose. Congrats. And sorry. For everything.”

Luna’s blue eyes take him in, and Theo watches as she stares. He knows Draco is uncomfortable under her gaze.

“I believe the fern is working, Theo,” Luna’s voice is gentle, and Malfoy blinks at her words. “Perhaps we should have some champagne.”

Thelma appears as if summoned, and she’s carrying a tray with four champagne flutes on it. They each take one, and at the last moment, Theo turns to the little house-elf, who has now watched over him his entire life. Possibly, the only one in the entire Manor that cared at all for him after his mother died. 

“Thelma,” He releases his hold on Luna for a moment and crouches down, staring into her enormous eyes. “I think we could wait a moment, why don’t you get your own glass as well. It’s a celebration after all.”

“Master Nott, I _couldn’t—_ ”

“You could.” He interrupts. “And you should, Thelma. You’re a part of this household, and it’s our honour to have you with us.”

Thelma looks as though she may burst into a second round of tears, but she disappears easily. Theo stands again, seeing that Draco is staring at him in surprise.

“Theodore Nott. Who would have known?” Hermione Granger is watching him, a smile on her face. “That was kind of you.”

He can feel his cheeks going red even as he watches Draco scowl at her praise, but Thelma saves him from responding by reappearing with a small champagne flute in her hands. She is shaking and her giant eyes are damp, but she speaks before anyone else can. 

“May you now feel no cold, for you will be the warmth to each other. May you have no loneliness or fear, for you are the companion to the other. May you always have shelter and a purpose to serve, and may it bless your household as you grow into a shared lifetime.”

Theo stares at his house-elf after her ringing words. No one else moves.

“Thelma,” Luna murmurs, “that was lovely. Where did you hear that?”

Thelma shrugs her tiny shoulders. “This is the traditional house-elf wedding blessing, Mistress Nott. Thelma did not know how else to honour your marriage.”

Luna’s eyes look suspiciously shiny, though she clears her throat and reaches down to clink her glass against Thelma’s. “Well, thank you, Thelma. It was beautiful.”

They toast all around and touch their glasses together, sipping at their champagne. Simple conversations break out, flickering through. Even Thelma gets sucked into a discussion with Granger, and Theo watches suspiciously for upset, but they seem happy.

“Ministry was odd, wasn’t it?” Draco’s voice is pitched low, and Theo glances over. He’s drinking his champagne, but his silver eyes are thoughtful. Theo is once again reminded that Draco Malfoy has been the smartest person in every room for most of his life unless Granger was there. Theo knows better than most why Draco hated her so much; he knows the expectations that Lucius had. 

“Very… practical.” Theo agrees.

Draco hums, “No mention of love. I believe they have changed the script.”

“Notice they cut the line from the ceremony that asks if we were there of our own free will.”

“The Ministry has approved mandated marriages en mass and then expects us to fulfil our ‘ _duty’_ and procreate with no regard to the kind of _trauma_ that could cause. I hardly think they care about our _free will_ if they go about treating our witches like cattle.”

Theo can feel the blood drain from his face. He’s staring at Luna when he answers. “That’s not what this was. Is.”

“I know _that_ ,” Draco scoffs. “She’s in love with you. It’s obvious.”

Theo stares at his wife. It doesn’t feel obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The house-elf wedding blessing was borrowed from the Apache Wedding Blessing which goes as follows:
> 
> "Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you are two persons, but there are three lives before you: his life, her life and your life together."
> 
> Luna's Wedding Dress inspiration can be found here: https://www.nataliewynndesign.com/journal/2020/1/16/styled-calypso-gown


	18. The Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you all love Theo and Luna so much because I also love them! Good news, we are getting into a few chapters from Hermione and/or Draco POV which is exciting :) A small warning - a brief mention of a past suicide in this chapter (not descriptive).
> 
> Once again, thank you for all the kudos and comments - I do read all of them and appreciate them ENDLESSLY (I'm just trash at responding *facepalm*) but do know that I adore you. Enjoy!

* * *

_November 10th, 1999 - Wednesday evening_

* * *

Hermione is standing in her wedding dress when her wards alert her that someone has breached her property line. There are no further wards triggered, however, so it can only be one of three people. 

Ron and Harry enter moments after the notice, and they take her in, standing in her living room in front of her tallest mirror. 

“Blimey,” Ron gapes, “Mione, you look _beautiful_.”

Hermione flushes — in all her years of knowing Ron, he has never called her that, not even when they were briefly together.

“Really?” She hates how uncertain her voice sounds.

Ron’s gone red and is rubbing the back of his neck, but Harry can always be trusted to remain cool. He approaches, a familiar smile around his eyes.

“Really,” Harry assures her.

Hermione looks at herself in the mirror once again and takes in the gown. When she had first put on Molly Weasley’s old wedding dress, it had fit surprisingly well — she’d altered the bust slightly with her wand and shortened the hem a little. The biggest change had been removing the horrendously large shoulders that had puffed out nearly to her ears.

Now, the gown has long sleeves that taper at her wrists, covering up the letters carved into her flesh. The bust has beadwork sewn in and a higher neckline that follows her collarbones. It’s held together at the waist with a simple belt of silk and then falls loosely to her socked feet.

“That’s uh… very traditional of you, Mione.” Ron says.

“Is it?” Hermione stares at the gown. It looks very similar to a muggle gown, though perhaps more of a darker champagne colour than a pure white. The belt had been a golden hue with scarlet edging into the lace work extending below, similar to Fleur’s wedding gown, but Hermione had spelled it to match the more white colour. She didn’t like how the lace resembled spiderwebs of blood.

“Yeah,” Ron steps closer. “Usually the sash is the colour of the wizard you’re marrying’s house. Or his family’s crest, if it’s different.”

“Oh, that’s why it was red and gold.” Hermione blurts.

Ron raises his eyebrows, “Did you buy it second-hand?”

“Your mum gave it to me.”

Ron recoils, as though the dress he had so admired suddenly contained his mother. “What?”

Harry laughs, “Molly _Weasley_ wore this?”

Hermione puts her hands on her hips. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing!” Ron sputters, “Only you look _pretty_ , and mum—”

“Wotcher, mate,” Harry warns, glancing around as though Molly could appear in a fit of rage at any moment.

Ron stills. “I just… are you _sure_ it was hers?”

“Yes, Ronald,” Hermione huffs, “I took the shoulders in a bit and changed the sash from gold and red to white, but otherwise it’s almost the exact dress your mum wore when she married your dad.”

“Ugh,” Ron replies.

Hermione can feel a mixture of anger and hurt rising in her throat, and Harry elbows Ron _hard_.

“Hermione, you look great. Can’t believe the ferret gets to marry you in that.” Harry’s voice is earnest and gentle, and her ire dies.

She smiles. “You mean it?”

“We do,” Ron finally recovers. “You look pretty, Mione. Malfoy is… a lucky… bloke.”

It’s possibly the nicest thing Ron has ever said about Draco Malfoy, so Hermione knows he means it.

“Hey, Hermione,” Harry says softly, “Ginny told me what you said on her wedding day. Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue, right?”

Hermione nods. Harry extends his hand and sets a small box in hers. She opens it to find two beautiful hairpins detailed with sapphires and diamonds. They’re delicate and _stunning_.

“Oh, goodness _,_ ” Hermione breathes.

Harry smiles, “Ron and I decided that you deserved something old and blue. And new? From us. We wanted to come by after work and give it to you before this weekend.”

“This is too much,” Hermione protests weakly.

Ron shakes his head adamantly. “No. Listen, Hermione. You have saved our lives a _thousand times_ and you deserve it.”

“You could have gotten me a book,” Hermione tells them.

Harry rolls his eyes and gestures around her room at all the piles of books. “We don’t even know what you already _have_. At least this is safe.”

“They’re beautiful, where on earth did you get them?” 

“They were in my parents' vault, so they’re old,” Harry tells her, “but Ginny suggested we get some sapphires put in for the blue, so Ron took it to a jeweller he knows on Diagon. So that’s new, I guess.”

Tears fill her eyes immediately; there are so few possessions Harry has of his parents, for him to gift these to her speaks of his love of her. Her entire chest feels warm.

“This is… wow. Just thank you. Both of you.” Hermione takes them out and pushes them both into her wild curls that seem to move in every direction. She had planned to tie her hair back into a bun for the wedding, remembering the distaste with which Draco had eyed her messy hair the last time they had gone to Java Corner, but when she stares in the mirror, she somehow looks like herself. It’s been a while.

“I’m going to wear it just like this,” she tells the boys.

They grin at her, and she impulsively throws her arms around them, pulling them close to her. It feels familiar to be surrounded by Harry and Ron.

“Let me just change and we’ll have a cup of tea,” she tells them when she pulls away, dashing a stray tear away. They look on fondly, and Harry putters to the kitchen as she escapes to her room.

She lays her wedding gown on her bed and stares at it with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. Although it’s not exactly the way she’d pictured her wedding, and definitely not the groom she’d pictured, she can’t help but feel a sense of excitement about the upcoming weekend. 

She’s about to leave her room when Hermione turns back and looks at the sash, remembering the colours it had been. Gold and red for Gryffindor; for Arthur Weasley. 

A simple flick of her wand and the sash has turned emerald green. She simplifies the dropping lace below the sash into soft tendrils that move from the Slytherin green into a sparkling silver, into the cream of the dress.

Hermione turns away and nearly runs from her room to escape her own actions. There’s a cup of tea waiting on the table, milk and sugar sitting beside for her to add to taste. She’s reminded briefly of Draco, preparing her tea exactly the way she has always preferred it without instruction. 

“Have you seen this?” Harry demands, distracting her from her musings. He’s holding a copy of the Daily Prophet in his fist, annoyance across his face.

Luna and Theo peek out from it, hands entwined and Luna’s starlit wedding gown obvious. The headline reads: _“Lovegood to Marry into Nott Family Under WPG?”_

Hermione scoffs at the newspaper. “No, but I was there. It’s true they married, but anything else Skeeter said in her article is probably rubbish.”

“Not _that_ ,” Ron replies as Harry frantically flips pages, “the article about Tracey Davis.”

Harry slaps down the Prophet on her table in front of her. There’s a small square of the paper that reads: ‘ _Witch Found Dead at 20 - WPG to Rematch Husband’._

The article is only four lines long. It reads: “ _Half-blood witch Tracey Davis, 20, found dead at her home by her fiance, Marcus Flint. Flint and Davis were matched by the Wizarding Population Growth Act. Flint will be re-matched at the earliest opportunity. The funeral for Davis will be held at her family’s estate on November 16th at 5PM.”_

Hermione can feel her fingers trembling against her teacup.

“Very suspicious she died at _twenty_ ,” Harry hisses. “I think Flint killed her.”

Hermione sighs. “He might as well have. She killed herself.”

“What?” Ron gasps. “How do you know?”

“Malfoy told me. They were friends, I think. He received a letter. Apparently, she had tried before, but matching with Flint was the final straw.”

“They were both Slytherins!” Ron protests.

Hermione frowns. “That’s what I said, but turns out Davis was half-blood. Muggle mum.”

Harry’s green eyes narrow. “The Flint’s are an outspoken pureblood family. Why would the Ministry match him with Davis! They had to know it was a disaster waiting to happen.”

Hermione shrugs. “I don’t think the Ministry considered histories or proclivities.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Ron intones, as though he is mulling a thought before unveiling it.

It’s rare for Ron to contradict her, but this is the second person who has disagreed with her view on the Ministry’s random assignments, and Hermione will listen. Though she has already shared her suspicion that the Ministry has rigged matches for potential business benefits with Draco, so far there has been no rhyme or reason for the other matches that she can decipher, and she had assumed it was mostly random. 

“Explain,” Hermione demands.

“Flint was a Death Eater, right?” Ron asks.

“Not officially,” Hermione says, “but he wanted to be.”

Ron frowns, “All the other Death Eaters stood trials. Most went to Azkaban with the exception of Malfoy and Nott.”

“Nott never cast any unforgiveables,” Harry agrees, “they only had him on aiding Voldemort, but it was under coercion. He was underage pretty much the entire time.”

“And we testified for Malfoy,” Hermione adds. She doesn’t have to add how traumatizing it had been, to see him suspended in a cage, dressed in rags with his dark mark visible. He had been skin and bones, with defeat written across every inch of his face, as though Azkaban was the only place he could imagine himself. Though Hermione had testified that he had tried to help them at Malfoy Manor by not identifying them, it was Harry’s testimony about Dumbledore’s death that had spared him. 

“So what if they couldn’t get Flint on anything, but they want to?”

Hermione can feel her jaw slacken. “Are you saying that you suspect the Ministry is attempting to _frame_ Marcus Flint?”

“No,” Ron mutters darkly, “I’m suggesting they’re just setting him up to commit a hate crime so they can catch him. He’ll be _guilty_ , no framing involved.”

Hermione feels faint.

“That’s sick,” Harry looks pale. 

Ron shrugs, “I agree, but you asked me to explain. If I wanted to catch Flint and put him in Azkaban, and I _do,_ so I can bet the Ministry does too, the easiest way is to catch him red-handed.”

Silence reigns for a moment and Hermione sips at her lukewarm tea. She’d almost forgotten how bloodthirsty Ron could be when strategizing. 

“That might explain Flint, but what about all the other matches?” Harry finally asks.

Hermione heaves a sigh. “Malfoy and I were wondering if there’s a possible business advantage. They seem to match families and pairs that could benefit a currently running business, or open or improve a new business, and therefore boost the economy in wizarding Britain. Like Katie Bell and Dean Thomas.”

“Quidditch,” Ron agrees, “Katie told us once in D.A. when she offered to get us brooms that her family owns part of the Cleansweep company.”

Hermione nods, grateful that Ron remembered that fact. She hadn’t told Draco how she had known, unwilling to give up D.A. members' information. Katie had wanted them to keep it quiet, and Hermione had already felt guilty sharing that much with Malfoy.

“Exactly. And did you know the Parkinson’s are really well known for potions?”

“Neville has access to a bunch of restricted ingredients,” Harry adds slowly. “He’s been cultivating his garden for years, even before we were out of school.”

Hermione smiles at the boys — as every year goes by she feels like they get better at connecting the dots, but perhaps they’re just finally learning how she operates. 

“Exactly. It almost seems like the Ministry is setting up possible business partners.”

“You think Pansy and Neville are going to be civil long enough to become _business partners_?” Ron says skeptically.

Harry frowns. “I saw Neville the other day. First time in a long time. He’s heartbroken over Hannah, but he didn’t say anything bad about Parkinson. He was out shopping — he said she was at home.”

“At _home_? They’re living together?” Ron exclaims.

Harry shrugs, “I guess so. Maybe they eloped quietly?”

“Does Hannah know?” Hermione looks at Ron, who has gone pale.

“I don’t think so. She wouldn’t take it well.” Ron sighs. “We’re planning to just sign the papers at the Ministry this week, no big wedding. I think she’s dragging her heels a bit because she’s hoping Neville will just show up one day and they can run away together.”

“You think they would?” 

Harry shakes his head at Hermione’s question. “Not a chance. Have you ever seen Neville run away from anything in his _life_?”

Ron chuckles, “Even in first year. You remember, right? He tried to stop us — blimey, Neville’s got more bravery than half the Gryffindor’s I know.”

“He loves Hannah, though.” Hermione protests, “What if he thinks running is worth it if he gets her?”

“That’s a nice thought, Hermione, but I don’t think he would.” Harry’s tone is gentle. “His parents are here in St. Mungo’s. His gran is here. Neville fought in the war — as hard as we did. He deserves to be here, and he wouldn’t let anything drive him away. Not even for Hannah.”

Hermione watches her oldest friends. Ron is frowning; so different from his usual smile. 

“I’m going to book a hearing with the Wizengamot,” Hermione tells them abruptly.

Ron scoffs, “What use could they be?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Hermione sighs, steepling her hands. “I think I just want to present my case that the WPG is a terrible and inhumane idea, especially following the trauma of the war, and they’ll agree and everything will go back to normal.”

Harry’s laugh is humourless. “Hermione, you’re good, but we both know that’s unrealistic for the Ministry.”

“I know.” Hermione can feel a tension headache building in between her eyes. “I actually want to inquire more about their matching methods and see what information they’ll give me.”

“You think the Wizengamot is going to explain themselves to you?” Ron questions, “No offense, Mione, but somehow I doubt it.”

She shrugs, “I’m not interested in what they _say_ , Ron. I’m interested in how they act. Who is in charge? Who becomes uncomfortable when I bring up all the unsuitable matches? Who flinches when I mention Tracey Davis? I need the _names_ of those on the Wizengamot who oppose the WPG.”

“Well, let us know how we can help.” Harry smiles at her. Ron nods in agreement.

“I will,” Hermione agrees, “but first tell me, how is George? And Harry, how is Ginny? I barely got to talk to her at the wedding!”

Harry’s smile grows, and he answers enthusiastically, “Ginny is great! She’s officially moved into Grimmauld — she was there all the time anyway, so it wasn’t hard. We’ve started renovating a bit!”

“Yeah, it looks bloody good. Hermione, you should go visit, I popped by the other day and it’s like a whole different house.” Ron adds.

“And we found a permanent sticking charm strong enough to silence Sirius’ horrible mother,” Harry shudders, as though remembering Walburga Black causes him physical pain. “So you wouldn’t even have to endure her shouting.”

Hermione laughs, “That is actually a relief. Did you know that she’s related to Draco? His great aunt or something.”

“I believe it,” Ron groused. “He always was a bastard.”

Hermione elbows him, “Be nice, Ron. He has been nothing but gentlemanly, so far.”

Even as she says the words, she’s conflicted; it’s true that Draco Malfoy, the boy who had tormented her for _years_ , seems to have disappeared without a trace. Only the Sunday prior, they had signed Theo and Luna’s wedding certificate and returned to Nott Manor, and Draco had toured her around the gardens with Theo and Luna. They had laughed and joked, and after an hour Hermione realized she was having _fun_. 

They had parted ways easily, and Draco had been writing her letters each day. Taffy had taken to roosting on her kitchen windowsill, stealing treats from her fingers and pressing his face into her hands for her pets. He was a welcome sight, and Hermione was coming to enjoy writing to Draco.

She almost wondered if they were friends.

“The Prophet thinks you still hate each other,” Harry’s voice drags her back to reality. Ron is scowling, a normal sight when discussing Draco Malfoy.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks.

Harry gestures at the paper he had flung down. “It’s on the front page with Theo and Luna. Says you and Malfoy accompanied them. It emphasizes how you didn’t speak to each other and stayed far apart. Called you ‘schoolyard enemies’ or some other bollocks.”

“It was Draco’s idea,” Hermione admits, “the Prophet would assume we were only there for our respective friends to sign their marriage contract. It had surprised me that even after your wedding the Prophet didn’t report that we had been matched, Harry. Not that I’m upset about that — it’s definitely a relief.”

“To be honest, Hermione, I think a few people were paid off.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Most people who were there wouldn’t betray us, but I wouldn’t be shocked if Malfoy’s keeping it hushed.”

Shock filters through her; it hadn’t even occurred to her that Draco would have done that. He had the money, to be sure, and he had admitted he wanted to keep them out of the papers as long as possible, but Hermione had assumed they were just playing an inevitable waiting game.

“Oh,” She breathes. She’s not sure if she’s offended or relieved.

Harry shrugs uncomfortably and looks away. Hermione understands his feelings; it goes against every Gryffindor bone in her body to hide her problems.

“Oh, Godric, I forgot to tell you!” Ron exclaims, “Parvati and George eloped! They just showed up _married_ at Harry’s wedding after you and Malfoy left!”

Hermione nearly drops her cup. “ _What?!_ ”

“Came as a surprise to all of us,” Ron explains, “Last I had seen George he’d been trying to drink himself to death and hiding away in his flat. Then he shows up with Parvati on his arm with this ridiculous ring, and he doesn’t _drink anymore at all_.”

“What?” Hermione repeats faintly; she’s not used to working so hard to keep up with information.

“I think the no drinking was more Parvati’s rule than anything else,” Harry tells her ruefully, “but he was in good spirits and laughing.”

“Do they… does he —” Hermione isn’t even sure what she’s trying to ask, but Ron’s face falls a bit.

“I don’t think he likes her, like _that_.” Ron shrugs, “I think they’re friends — they’ve got a lot in common.”

Harry nods, “There are worse things than being friends under this law.”

As if summoned by this truth, Taffy knocks at her window, startling the trio. Hermione stands and goes to let the owl in, offering him a treat in exchange for the parchment tied to his leg.

“Who’s owl is that?” Ron asks.

“Draco’s,” Hermione answers, already opening the letter.

_“Dear Granger,_

_If you are free tomorrow evening after work, please consider joining me for dinner. I will endeavour not to storm away like a prat this time._

_If it works for you — I’ll pick you up at 6?_

_Yours,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_PS: Stop feeding Taffy treats I think he already likes you better than me.”_

Hermione laughs and feeds Taffy another treat with zero remorse. When she turns back to the table, the boys are talking about Quidditch. It’s such a familiar sight — thousands of memories of them doing the exact same thing flit through her brain.

She _accio’_ s a pen and parchment and scrawls Draco a reply.

_“Dear Malfoy,_

_I’m free — I’ll be ready for you at 6. I’ll endeavour not to bite your head off this time._

_Also — Harry and Ron stopped by today. I have so many things to tell you! George and Parvati eloped and appeared at Harry's wedding after we left! The last I had heard they hadn't even spoken. Also, apparently Pansy and Neville are living together!? Or so Harry thought, he ran into him just the other day._

_There was also an article by Skeeter in the Prophet about Luna and Theo — you probably already saw it. We were mentioned, but don’t panic, they have referred to us as enemies... so very dramatic, I know, though I am glad the press won't be following us yet._

_On another note... the Prophet also mentioned Tracey Davis — if you don’t have a copy of the paper and wanted to read it, let me know and I'll bring one for you tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_Granger_

_PS: I’ll stop feeding Taffy treats he definitely_ **_deserves_ ** _when_ **_you_ ** _start thanking your house-elves.”_

“Blimey, Hermione, are you writing him an essay?”

Hermione scowls at Ron’s question, setting her pen down. “That was a perfectly reasonable response, Ronald.”

“Of course it was,” Harry’s voice is fond, if exasperated.

Hermione huffs and makes her way back to the table. “I hardly think a few sentences equate to an essay.”

“Does he even _read_ them?” Ron leans back in her chair, relaxed. Though Hermione loves him dearly, she is immediately reminded about how absolutely _not right_ they were for each other.

How often she had written him letters — longer than the one she had just sent Draco Malfoy — and he had responded in two sentences or fewer?

Though… perhaps Draco just thinks he hasto reply to her? Perhaps he doesn’t want to and he just is being polite? Ron had never struggled with being rude. 

“Nine days,” Harry interrupts her sudden internal panic.

“Nine days until what?” Ron questions.

Harry locks eyes with her, and Hermione grimaces. She knows this answer. “In nine days, the Wizarding Population Growth Act states that each matched couple must be married.”

“People are flocking to the Ministry,” Harry adds, “The lineup on the second floor is round the corner.”

“Do we know what the Ministry is going to do to those who don’t obey?” Ron is pale.

Hermione shrugs, “They state deportation from the British magical communities.”

“Not only that,” Harry adds, “But the Aurors are on call to make arrests. Magical Law Enforcement, too. They’re planning on charging anyone who ignores the WPG.”

“They can’t send them to Azkaban!” Ron argues.

Harry sighs, “They don’t need to. If they charge them, they can seize their assets, even from Gringotts. They’ll bankrupt any witch or wizard they can, send them out of the country if they’re lucky, or Azkaban if they’re unlucky.”

The table is silent, stewing in fury. To be so betrayed by your government; the government you had supported and had hoped would be better than the last.

“I suppose I better go tell Hannah,” Ron stands slowly, wearily. “We should get it over with. Maybe we’ll just go tonight, I think they have it open late all this week.”

Harry stands, and Hermione watches them. Her heart is breaking. “I’m so sorry, Ron.”

Ron half-smiles at her, “It’s not your fault, Hermione. We’re going to fix this, remember?”

“Definitely,” Harry agrees, “Hermione, let us know when the Wizengamot allows you a hearing.”

“I will,” she promises.

“Harry, let us know when Kingsley finally answers one of your memos,” Ron demands, “Can’t believe that wanker is _hiding_.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything, but she agrees. Kingsley has been absent for more than a week, and it’s _shameful_. 

She walks the boys to the door and watches as they head outside of her gate to apparate away. It’s fully dark by now, just the sliver of a moon and stars to light their way. Hermione wonders if she should put in a small lamp-post at the end of her walkway. Though she rarely has guests in her tiny cottage, she supposes that might change. Draco would surely want Theo to have access, and Hermione could perhaps allow Luna in her space.

With the thought that her world might be expanding, Hermione heads back into her cottage. She supposes she should clean it a bit, prepare a few shelves for Draco’s imminent arrival.

It’s nearly two hours later, and far past her bedtime when Hermione deems the cottage _ready_. Everything is spotless, and she’s transfigured her old armchair into a corner couch large enough to hold more than one person. Her bed has been moved to the centre of the bedroom, with night tables on both sides; though she doesn’t dwell on the _why_ of this. Her closet is half empty, and although it had never been full to begin with, she had purchased a new dresser only the day beforehand, for Malfoy, and what she assumes is an obnoxiously extensive wardrobe.

The last touch on her cottage, however, sends a genuine thrill through her. She strengthens her wards and hides her magic behind shields as much as she can before casting the undetectable extension charm: _Capacious Extremis_.

She has done the complicated spell once before, on the beaded bag that had carried her through the war. It was heavily controlled magic, and Hermione had taken _ages_ to figure out how to hide such a spell from the Ministry — it had been Barty Crouch Jr in the fourth year who had actually given her the clues. They had left his trunk alone in his classroom office after his arrest and the recovery of the _real_ Mad-Eye Moody, and Hermione had snuck in to run diagnostics on it. She’d known, even then, that it was a particularly tricky bit of magic.

It had taken her _months_ to figure it out.

This time, the magic comes easily. The trunk in her office shudders and Hermione throws the lid open. There are stairs leading down to an empty space, and cautiously she crawls inside.

Though the charm could _in theory_ be applied to make the trunk as large as she could ever need it, she had spelled it specifically to be about the size of the office she had come from. She summons the bookshelves filled with books from above, and they float down into her new library space. 

It takes her another hour, even with magic helping, and Hermione feels as though she could collapse by the time she finishes. Exhaustion races through her, even as she delights in the wall-to-wall bookshelves, and the impeccable filing system for easy access. 

“Just need to buy another chair,” Hermione mutters before clambering out of her trunk stairs. Her office looks almost empty with the bookshelves gone, just a lone desk in the centre of the space.

Her bed is calling her, and though she hates it being in the middle of the space and not safely against the wall, she’s tired enough that once she pulls her blankets over her shoulder, she’s asleep before she knows it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's wedding dress inspiration found here... please imagine no lace on the chest, but instead a lace style belt in emerald green that gradient fades into the same colour as the dress:
> 
> https://www.dhresource.com/0x0/f2/albu/g17/M00/E4/C5/rBVa4l_rPUqAOcNLAADEPWGlax0291.jpg/formal-dresses-champagne-prom-dress-long.jpg


	19. Peace Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, thank you SO much for your comments. I really appreciate them so SO much. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story, and I know everyone is excited about more Hermione/Draco interaction, so I hope this chapter delivers! 
> 
> Warning: Please heed the tags on this story. Note that at no point in this story will I explicitly write dub or non-con scenes, though those types of scenarios are taking place 'off-screen'.

* * *

_November 11th, 1999 - Thursday_

* * *

Hermione Granger has two pens stuck through the bun piled on top of her head, editing furiously through Donna’s _ridiculous_ Selkie proposal. She’s half a mind to send Donna a howler over her thoughtless write-up and suggestions. The woman has been irritating all week — staring at her as though she’s going to _crucio_ her at any turn, simply because she’s acquainted with Theo and Draco.

The only saving grace is that despite Donna being infamous as the office gossip, and nearly obsessed with Hermione's unexpected appearance in the department during Theo and Luna’s wedding, she had been largely silenced after the Prophet had covered the wedding in an article a few days prior.

The Daily Prophet, for once in her life, had done Hermione Granger a favour. Her coworkers accepted the paper's statement that Hermione had been there for Luna’s support, and Draco for Theo’s. As far as the Prophet was concerned, Draco and Hermione were nothing more than schoolyard rivals, which suited her fine. Though many coworkers had brought up the WPG, Hermione has continually navigated the conversation away from herself at every turn.

She knows they’re curious — the entire bloody world is curious. The Prophet headline today had been splashed across the entire page: _“The Golden Trio: Matches & Marriages” _with an image of Ron and Hannah walking through the Ministry together, Ron’s hand splayed out as if to ward off the camera. Neither of them were smiling.

The article, written by none other than Rita Skeeter, had stated that Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, had married Hogwarts sweetheart Ginny Weasley. The entire paragraph had been sickly sweet and hopeful, touting the WPG as the ‘key that brought them together’; as if they hadn’t _already been dating_.

Ron is not so lucky — the Daily Prophet has written that Ronald Weasley matched with Hannah Abbott. It details the entirety of her and Neville Longbottom’s relationship, and has the audacity to state that ‘ _with Weasley stealing Longbottom’s girl, this might spell the end of a long friendship’_.

Hermione’s own section in the article is — thankfully — sparse. It says that her match remains a secret, and though the _‘wizarding world waits with bated breath to find out who the war heroine will marry’_ there are no clues it could be Draco Malfoy. 

Still, the ending line in the article burns her even though she _knows_ it is untrue. It’s a lie — one that Skeeter wrote to get under her skin.

_‘With Hermione Granger’s long-time sweetheart Ron Weasley married to Hannah Abbott, we must ask ourselves: how far will the golden girl go for revenge?’_

Skeeter has set her up to portray the hysterical woman — and worse than that, she has undermined Hermione’s efforts to destroy the WPG with one fell sentence. 

Her quill snaps in her fingers and Hermione glances up. It’s the third quill today she’s broken, and she has to cast a quick charm over the Selkie proposal before the red ink destroys it. 

_“Reparo,”_ Hermione mutters, just as a knock sounds on her door.

It’s Douglas, the head of accounting in their department, and he’s holding a vase of flowers.

“Douglas, come in,” Hermione invites, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.

“Oh, don't worry, Miss. Granger, I'm not staying. Just here to drop these off — a delivery person accidentally brought them to me, so I said I could swing them over to you.”

He places the vase on her desk, and Hermione stares at the artful arrangement. It’s lilies detailed with baby’s breath and absolutely stunning.

“Did they mention who they’re from?” Hermione asks.

Douglas shrugs, “No, sorry.”

“Oh, must be from Harry then. Thank you!” Hermione is under absolutely no illusions that Harry Potter sent her this bouquet, but better to plant that thought now.

Douglas nods and heads out, closing the door behind his portly figure. He’s a kind man, and not prone to gossip. Hermione’s glad the flowers went to him instead of Donna, who likely would have somehow spun it that a Death Eater sent them to her.

Which — to be fair — is not that far from the truth. 

Hermione finds the small scroll wrapped almost under the flowers, nearly hidden. It comes away with a gentle tug, and Hermione unrolls it swiftly.

_“Granger,_

_You mentioned lilies were your favourite. I hope you like French food — I thought perhaps something other than Italian tonight. You must share everything from your friends’ visit yesterday. I’m especially intrigued about P &N since normally she would owl me news of that sort. We’re… friends. _

_Anyway, I hope you like the flowers. Figured you may need cheering up; I heard that_ _your ‘long time sweetheart’ married some other girl._

_Relax — I’m joking._

_See you tonight at the cottage. I’ll be there at 6._ ’

It’s the first letter Draco’s ever sent her without signing who it’s from. She knows it’s just caution on his end. Anyone could intercept the flowers and know who he was, even from initials. His writing is almost as familiar to her as her own by this point, though, and Hermione stares at the bouquet, letter in hand.

The flowers are beautiful, but even more surprising, they’re thoughtful. He remembered her favourite kind, and he’d even read her letter that Ron had deemed an ‘essay’ the night before.

Another knock at her door makes her flinch, and she barely chokes out: “Come in!”

Harry’s face appears, and Hermione grins at him. He rarely drops by her office, though she had assumed since the Prophet had featured them he might today.

“Hey,” he plops into the seat in front of her desk, taking in the bouquet. “Nice flowers.”

“Thanks. Did you know lilies are my favourite?”

Harry shakes his head, “No. They're pretty, though.”

Hermione sighs at Harry’s cluelessness — ten years of friendship and she worries sometimes that he has no idea who she is.

Though she also remembers fighting beside him, countering his every weak point with her own hexes, and he doing the same for her. She remembers fitting into his arms and sobbing as though the world ended, and how after Malfoy Manor the only time she felt safe was when she was stuffed between him and Ron, sandwiched between two anchors.

Flowers do not a friendship make.

“You read the Prophet?” Hermione asks, pulling her wand out to cast a quick _muffliato_ at the door.

Harry scoffs, “Yes, though it’s rubbish.”

“Of course it is,” Hermione sniffs. “Still, it doesn’t help our cause. I’ll just look like some heartbroken witch scheming to get back her man if I do anything against the WPG now.”

“Yes,” Harry says intently, “which is precisely why I want you to pretend to be happy with Malfoy.”

Hermione nearly chokes. “What?!”

“I’m serious, Hermione.”

“You what — you want us to fake a happy marriage? Won’t it look bad when I’m constantly trying to dismantle the WPG if I’m supposedly happy?”

Harry nods, “I thought of that, but do you think Malfoy would help you? If you two were a united force, and Ron and I backed you, imagine how much power we’d have against the WPG?”

“He’s already going to help,” Hermione admits grudgingly.

As far as plans go, it’s surprisingly not Harry Potter’s worst. It’s a little known fact that Harry Potter is _not_ the planner of the group — he gets by on mostly pure luck and wicked reflexes.

“What did the Wizengamot say when you sent them your request for a hearing?” Harry asks.

Hermione rolls her eyes and summons a parchment, sending it careening into Harry’s face. He snatches it without flinching; office memos are the new snitches in his life.

“To Miss Hermione Granger,” Harry reads darkly, “At this time the Wizengamot is completely booked for hearings until after the holiday season. I have tentatively booked you into an appointment on January 6th.”

Hermione sniffs, “I thought about putting up a stink, but then I read Skeeter’s stupid article.”

Harry balls up the reply and tosses it towards the waste bin. Hermione frowns, knowing she’ll have to dig it out of there later, but lets it go for now.

“Keep that appointment,” Harry growls, “it gives us more time to research.”

“That’s almost two months away!” Hermione protests.

Harry shrugs, “It doesn’t matter. We have nothing on them — we’re just looking for their reactions. I’ll start digging deeper into who is on the Wizengamot, and you keep doing what you’re doing.”

Hermione rolls her eyes — Harry has been instructing her to ‘do what she’s doing’ since second year when it finally occurred to him that she was generally on the right track.

“Do me a favour,” she says, “look into Ernest Hawkworth.”

“The Chief Warlock?” 

“Yes. His name was on the letter when they sent us our matches. And Babajide Akingbade might be worth a look, though he doesn’t live in Britain, so I don’t know if he’ll be useful.”

Harry shrugs, “I’ll look into them. I know very little about Hawkworth, except that he’s been on the Wizengamot for a long time and took over Chief Warlock after… after Dumbledore.”

Hermione sighs, “That’s what I figured, but it can’t hurt. Anyway, you better get back to work — I know for a fact your lunch hour was over ten minutes ago.”

Harry scoffs, “If Kingsley can hide away and never show his face, why can’t I?” 

Still, he dutifully stands and sends her a grin. 

“Bye Harry,” Hermione calls, and he shuts the door behind him.

For the next hour, she stares at the Selkie proposal and gets nowhere, so instead, she lists all the matches from the WPG she knows on parchment the way she’s done a hundred times by now. There’s still nothing that she can see that she’s missed before.

Charlie is with Astoria; she can think of nothing to do with Dragons that might've inspired that match, and it is curious that Daphne is with Percy, pairing both Greengrass daughters with Weasleys. George and Parvati are both from Gryffindor house, which does seem to be rare within the pairings, but other than that Hermione can't see any other link. Ron is with Hannah, which is unexplainable; Harry is with Ginny, a match that Hermione had manipulated through Kingsley. Dean Thomas and Katie Bell have Quidditch in common, and Neville and Pansy have the potions connection, which fits into her business advantage theory. 

She writes down Theo and Luna's name beside each other, then her own and Draco's, and finally, Marcus Flint and Tracey Davis. Her heart sinks. 

As Hermione stares at her list she suddenly wonders if Ron’s idea about them setting Marcus Flint up to kill Tracey Davis was true. She wonders if they matched her to Malfoy for the same reason. Did they think he was going to kill her? That they could then arrest him; ridding them of the Death Eaters that escaped Azkaban? Would it be the same for Theo?

She glances at the flowers on her desk, and the letter Malfoy sent her sitting beside them.

Hermione forces herself to breathe, forces herself to be logical. Draco Malfoy — admittedly a prat and a bully as a child, and then an unwilling Death Eater during the war — will not murder her. She _knows_ this.

From the very first letter he had sent her before the WPG was even a thought, he has done nothing but attempt to distance himself from the villain he had been. He has acquiesced to every request she has made; from a muggle wedding to living in her cottage after their marriage. He has told her she looked _nice_ , and given her a bracelet that is priceless, and perhaps most importantly, he has called her nothing but Granger or Hermione this entire time. 

If the Wizengamot was planning some sort of elaborate murder of Hermione Granger by an ex-Death Eater, Draco will not give them that satisfaction.

She goes pale —

Stares down at the bracelet on her wrist, the twinkling azure jewels set in goblin-wrought silver. She hasn’t taken it off except to shower since he had given it to her.

She pictures him; their very first meeting at the Java Corner, nerves playing across his aristocratic face: _“it’s customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift,”_ he had told her.

Hermione Granger knows that if the Wizengamot wants her dead and Draco arrested, they will set him up. They will murder her themselves and frame him for it.

What she is not sure about is whether Draco has realized this already and is holding out on her; why else would he give her a bracelet that could supposedly call him to her side in an instant? Sneaky bloody Slytherin.

Her bag is in her hand before she can think, and she throws everything inside. The letter Harry had thrown away flies to her fingers. A quick _incendio_ reduces the scribbled words and matches she had written on the parchment to ash, and Hermione scrambles to toss her coat on before heading out of her office. She doesn’t speak to anyone on the way out, striding with purpose to the Ministry Floo where she escapes to Diagon Alley. 

She apparates to her cottage, rushing to feel her wards surround her. Safe — she is _safe_.

Work can wait — she may be home three hours earlier than usual, but no one will question the disappearance of a notable workaholic. They probably would think she’s attending an out of office work meeting.

Instead, Hermione throws her coat on her hook and heads to her enchanted trunk, clambering down the stairs. She’s finally got a small desk and chair inside the magically enlarged space, and taking up half of the wall there is a bulletin board filled with pins and notes.

Today, she adds three more pins — one to Marcus Flint, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott. The note she tacks to them states: _‘Ministry set up to purge remaining Death Eaters?’._

Godric; she hopes she’s wrong.

Tentatively, she’s become almost fond of Theo. When he had accompanied Luna to the Leaky Cauldron to meet her, Ron, and Harry, he had been polite. Perhaps a little quiet, but friendly, and he had stared at Luna as though she was the only sunshine in his entire world. A part of Hermione had been jealous.

She sits in front of her board and studies it mercilessly. Tracey Davis is dead; but she killed herself, Malfoy had told her that. So far, there has been no move to frame Flint for it; though Hermione doesn’t doubt the Ministry is still capable of it. Harry will know first — he’ll let her know if the Ministry sends the Aurors for Flint. 

Thinking of Harry reminds her of his idea.

 _Pretending_ — being happy as Draco Malfoy’s wife.

She knows what Malfoy has told her: the public will hate her for getting along with him. They will vilify her for her betrayal; in their eyes, to care for a Malfoy is to support Voldemort’s ideals. However, her support would also vastly improve his reputation.

For a heartbreaking moment, Hermione wonders if _that_ is the reason Draco has been so tolerant so far. She dismisses the thought a moment later when she recalls how he had apologized _before_ the WPG had come out. She’s so bloody grateful he had the courage to write to her and say sorry. What a difference it has made in her opinion of him.

She sighs and plunks her head into her hands, her curly hair falling out of her bun and brushing her fingers. Her decision is already made, and she knows it. 

Hermione Granger does the right thing.

It’s practically a part of her; a trait stamped into her very genetics. She cannot abide standing by and watching others suffer when she could have done something. It was the whole idea behind S.P.E.W, the inspiration for her current career in the Ministry, and how she could withstand Bellatrix’s torture all while giving away no information.

Pretending to be happy in a marriage with Draco Malfoy will protect him; give the public a reason to change their opinion of him while still allowing her to protest the WPG on the behalf of others.

It’s hardly the most difficult thing she has ever done. 

She drags herself to her feet and marches back into the upstairs, emerging from her trunk and shutting it tightly. She spends almost an entire hour in the bathtub, soaking in bubbles and pretending that the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s a habit she’s indulged in since the war ended. The first bath she had taken after the Battle of Hogwarts had felt as though she had been reborn. 

Her ribs ache when she gets out of the tub, and she takes a pain potion. The healers at St. Mungo’s had informed her that extensive exposure to the _cruciatus_ could cause a nearly arthritic type of inflammation, and every once in a while it flares up.

Her hair cooperates, and she leaves it down in curls around her shoulders; it feels like her armour. Her face in the mirror looks tired, and Hermione scowls. She brushes on some blush and a little eye makeup; she so rarely wears it, but it hardly seems acceptable for Draco to pick her up looking half-dead.

Wrapped in a plushy towel, she sits on the edge of her bed. She’s holding her D.A. gold coin in her hand tightly, the edges biting into her palm. It remains silent. She doesn’t know exactly how long she sits in silence, but by the time she finally drops the gold coin into her beaded bag, the cool air has chilled her skin.

It’s half-past five when Hermione slips into her outfit. She’d borrowed it from Ginny ages ago and never worn it. The top is a blush pink that dips into a vee on her chest, with long sleeves that taper at her wrists. She tucks it into her knee-length black skirt and low kitten heels. 

Her bracelet glimmers from her wrist, a reminder to a thousand questions she has for her future husband.

A knock at her door seems to echo through the cottage, and Hermione resolutely marches towards her door. She throws it open and comes face to face with Draco Malfoy. He’s wearing a black wool coat and a Slytherin green scarf, and a corner of his lip tilts up when he sees her.

“Granger,” he greets.

She nods, breathless. She summons her bag and slips her long trench over her outfit. 

“Thank you for the flowers.” 

“You’re welcome,” he replies, “I thought after Skeeter’s article you might need a pick me up.”

Hermione laughs humourlessly as they head down her little cobblestone path and pass the gate. “The Prophet is filled with lies.”

“Doesn’t mean people don’t read it,” Malfoy sighs and switches topics. “Shall I side-along you?”

Hermione nods, wrapping her arm through his elbow. It’s more comfortable now, easy to reach for him and trust that he’ll take her safely to their destination.

They whirl away and land on a darkened doorstep in muggle London. He doesn’t let go of her arm, and they head east together. His pace is sedate, and Hermione is grateful because although her heels are low she isn’t used to wearing anything but flat, sensible shoes.

“You like French food?” Draco asks.

Hermione nods, “I do, though I don’t speak French, so you may have to translate.”

She assumes he speaks French — in every pureblood compendium he had sent her, the Malfoy’s descended from France, and Hermione doubts that Narcissa Malfoy would allow any holes in Draco’s education. 

“Of course,” Draco allows, stopping briefly and opening a door into a small restaurant. There’s no signage beyond a single neon sign that reads ‘open’, but when she walks through the doorway, it’s warm and smells like heaven.

The _Maître d_ ’ greets them easily, and after a moment’s conversation with Draco, she whisks them away to a small booth, a navy curtain enclosing the booth, and a flickering candle in the centre of the table. 

It’s unbearably romantic.

She slides into the booth and takes her coat off, folding it over her beaded bag, cheeks burning.

“I like that colour on you,” Draco blurts, and Hermione snaps her eyes to him. His expression is closed, though a slight blush graces his cheeks.

Hermione clears her throat, “Thank you. I borrowed it from Ginny. I’m afraid I don’t own many date clothes.”

“Weasel not take you out much?” Draco drawls.

“Be nice,” Hermione admonishes, but then smirks. “But no, not really.”

Draco huffs a laugh, “Well, we can go out whenever you like. Though, admittedly, muggle places tend to be more comfortable. There’s… less staring.”

“I assure you,” Hermione tells him determinedly, “that I am _very_ used to staring. Perhaps we should brave Diagon one day.”

Draco frowns, but the water emerges before he can contradict her. He orders flawlessly in French and then glances at her.

“Would you like a wine?”

Hermione nods, “Sure. Red, please.”

He says something else in French, and the server disappears. 

“How are Theo and Luna?” Hermione asks, desperate to change the subject from their public outings.

Draco rolls his eyes, “Well, Hermione Granger, it should please you to know that once again you were _right_.”

Hermione laughs at his fake sarcasm, “Oh dear. What about this time?”

“Theo bought her Thestrals.” 

Hermione gasps, “What?! They are a Class XXXX restricted animal and under regulation 2.7A of the—”

“Granger, relax.” Draco’s face has gone almost _fond_. “Theo has all the correct papers. I told you, the Nott’s used to breed Thestrals for decades.”

Hermione feels her muscles relax, and she realizes that instead of _mocking her_ , Draco Malfoy has calmed her. He’s amused, sure, but he hadn’t called her a know-it-all swot.

“Well, that’s… good, then.”

“Good, because you were right?” Malfoy laughs and leans forward. “About the Ministry possibly pairing them for their shared interest in Thestral breeding, I mean.”

Hermione swallows. She’s not sure if she should mention that she’s currently working on a theory where Thestrals have nothing to do with it and instead the Ministry is planning on murdering Luna Lovegood and herself to set Theo and Draco up for Azkaban. Wonders if Draco already _knows_ about this theory.

“What about Pansy?” She says instead.

Draco frowns at her topic change, “Pansy has mentioned nothing about Longbottom. You think they’re living together?”

Then, Hermione tells him everything Ron and Harry had told her: tells him about how Neville is breaking Hannah’s and his own heart but not spewing hate over Parkinson while doing it. Tells him that George and Parvati eloped and are friends, but Charlie and Astoria don’t speak, and Percy and Daphne spend hours comparing boring texts that would drive anyone else mad, all while _smiling_ at each other. 

She tells him how the Ministry is prepared to deport, bankrupt, and jail any person who does not obey the WPG, and then she tells him how the Daily Prophet had mentioned Flint would be re-matched after Davis’ death.

She does not mention Ron Weasley’s theory or her fears. 

Their wine arrives halfway through her talking, and she sips at it easily. It’s full-bodied and delicious, and Hermione finally runs out of steam when her glass runs dry.

“I also booked a hearing with the Wizengamot,” she finishes. “It’s not until the New Year. I just want to get a sense of who supports the WPG.”

Draco Malfoy listens attentively throughout her speech but frowns speculatively at this. “They won’t help you. They’re used to Hawkworth running everything; Dumbledore was Chief Warlock for years, but he was absent nearly the entire time since he was at Hogwarts. Hawkworth was almost always in charge, though he bent to whatever Dumbledore wanted when it mattered.”

“I didn’t think he was… bad.” Hermione sighs. “I just don’t know if he’s behind the WPG.”

“He probably is behind it,” Draco states. “Though I doubt it’s as villainous in his mind. My father—”

Draco chokes the words off, his eyes drifting away from her, as though he can’t bear to speak of Lucius while looking at her. 

“Tell me.” She commands.

He glances back, surprise flickering in silver eyes. “My father always said he was a shortsighted fool, easy to manipulate. He thirsted for power more than anything else. He called him ‘Dumbledore’s puppet’.”

The server reappears, and Hermione nearly scowls. They are always being interrupted at the most inopportune moments.

“Draco,” she murmurs, “could you order me a seafood dish?”

His eyes scan the menu briefly, “Do you like sole?”

She nods, and he orders a dish she cannot pronounce, as well as something to do with lamb. The server doesn’t write anything down or crack a smile and disappears as quickly as he’d come.

“You think he thirsts for power?” Hermione asks as soon as she’s able.

Draco’s flinty eyes find hers. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Hermione flinches. “No. No, they don’t.”

Draco laughs, “Granger, don’t be naïve. Everyone wants more power.”

“I don’t,” She answers stubbornly.

He watches her with curious eyes. “Alright. What do you want, then?”

“To be safe,” the words escape her before she can think to filter them.

Draco’s expression softens infinitesimally, but his words fall like punches. “Okay. And how do you think you can make yourself safe, Granger? What do you _need_?”

Hermione feels her breath leave her — he’s right. She doesn’t thirst for power, not the same way Voldemort did. But she wants to be safe; she wants to have the power to make herself and those she loves safe. She wants to make a difference. 

“It’s not the same thing.” She insists.

“No, it’s not.” Draco agrees, “Intention makes a difference.”

They lapse into silence, and Hermione steels herself.

“And you?” 

“Me, what?” Draco replies.

She narrows her gaze, hoping to convey the same piercing intensity he does so easily. “Why do you need power? What do you want?”

Hurt flickers over his expression before it becomes steely again; but it’s too late, Hermione has seen the vulnerability. She’s offended him, sure, but she’s also learned something. Draco Malfoy _wants_ to be good. Wants to be trusted. 

“Don’t you realize, Granger?” He smirks lazily at her, “Money _is_ power, and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”

She laughs, “So I suppose I’m powerful now, too.”

“As of Sunday, sure.” He agrees, humour once more twinkling in his eyes. Surprisingly, the mention of their upcoming nuptials doesn’t dampen their mood. 

Their food arrives, and their conversation flows into something lighter, something easier. She learns that Draco has both a passion and a skill for charms, and though the story of repairing the Vanishing Cabinet has an unhappy ending, he navigates away from it with finesse. She stares at his fingers, noticing silver-white scars across his skin. How many injuries did the repair cost him?

“I’ve been thinking of using arithmancy, actually,” Draco muses, telling her of his newest project he’s been tinkering with, “I must show you my calculations because I think if I invert the…”

Their food arrives as he speaks, and Hermione enjoys every bite in-between banter. Draco is _smart_ — and she knew that, but she hardly thinks she’s enjoyed a meal so much in _years_.

He orders dessert without asking, and Hermione smiles at his presumption. She brings up her newest potion research, and Draco asks if she tried newt toes or essence of murtlap instead of the _issmigum_ plant she’s having trouble sourcing. 

Their plate of _profiteroles_ arrive and every bite is like a revelation. They burst in her mouth with flavour, and when divided equally there is one extra piece that Draco lets her have.

He pays the bill in muggle currency, and Hermione is curious, but for once in her life she lets the moment pass. She has an entire marriage ahead of her with him to ask about his familiarity with the muggle world.

They stroll onto the street, and Draco leads her a different way than they came. Soon they are turning onto a cobbled square, and Christmas lights are shining in some shop windows.

“Can’t believe Christmas is almost here,” she murmurs in wonder. They stroll beside each other down the sidewalks, and though their conversation stalls, she is comfortable.

“I was hoping you would accompany me to Blaise Zabini and Padma Patil’s wedding. It’s next week.” Draco mentions.

“Cutting it close, aren’t they?” Hermione muses, remembering that there are now only 8 days until the WPG deadline. “I’d love to go with you.”

Draco huffs, “I think Blaise is hoping the WPG will fall apart before the marriage.”

“He doesn’t like Padma?” Hermione remembers Padma — she had been Ravenclaw, quieter and far less flighty than her sister Parvati. She was smart _and_ beautiful, and Hermione is almost offended on her behalf that she’s somehow not good enough for Blaise Zabini.

Draco snorts. “Blaise doesn’t like _girls_.”

“Oh,” Hermione gapes, her annoyance dissipating. “Oh. I see.”

“Yes. The WPG puts a bit of a wrench into that preference.”

Hermione feels her throat clog with tears for someone she hardly knows. For someone she previously didn’t even think she’d ever _like_. Blaise Zabini had always come across as a condescending sneak; though Hermione now understands how much the label of 'Slytherin' had coloured her vision for years. Perhaps she has been wrong.

“That’s… horrible. I’m so sorry for him.” 

Draco shrugs, “The WPG is horrible for many people. Blaise mentioned Padma is accepting of him and kind. She’s worried about the pregnancy deadline, though.”

Dread coils in Hermione’s stomach. “What… what will Blaise do?”

“If it comes down to it?” Draco stops and glances at her, as though measuring how much she truly wants to hear the answer. “I suppose he’ll get blind drunk and get it over with.”

Hermione falls speechless. She had known; of _course,_ she had known. The WPG mandated a pregnancy — and she wasn’t ignorant as to how that would come about. Not every witch or wizard would be willing, _or able_. It was still horrible to face that truth.

“My mother,” Draco swallows, and Hermione snaps her eyes back to him. He falters but continues in a wounded tone. “My mother endured a… less than ideal marriage for many, _many_ years, Granger.”

Hermione feels her throat go dry. She had always imagined that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had found each other through their mutual awfulness and pureblood superiority, bonding over a deep hatred of Muggles. Like a child, she had thought —

Well, every child thinks all parents love each other.

“My father was an evil bastard.” Malfoy’s voice goes dark and _murderous_ , and fear ripples down Hermione’s spine. 

“I… I am so sorry.” She whispers.

“No.” He bites out the word, pinning her with a raptor’s gaze. “ _No_. I’m not telling you to be _sorry_.”

“I don’t know what you want, Malfoy,” Hermione admits. It almost seems as if the smallest motion or word she may say could send this polite Draco Malfoy disappearing. 

Tension radiates from him, and he exhales. “I don’t want _that_.”

Understanding hits her like a flash — Draco doesn’t want her to be sorry, but _more than that_ , he doesn’t want what his parents had. 

Draco Malfoy — the boy who had worshipped his father and emulated him at every turn — is nowhere to be found. Instead, all Hermione sees is vulnerability.

“I don’t want that either,” she tells him honestly. “And I know you won’t be like… like him.”

Draco stares at her as though seeing her for the very first time. Tentatively, he lifts a gentle hand up in a strange mirror of their first meeting and presses his fingertips to her cheekbone. Warmth spreads from where he touches, featherlight. Hermione suddenly realizes he could kiss her. 

Suddenly realizes how much she wants him to.

“You should kiss me,” she tells him, and his eyes grow wide in front of her. It almost looks as though he is going to protest, but at the same moment he curls towards her. She always forgets how tall he is.

His other hand finds her face, both palms hot on her jawline. Christmas lights twinkle behind him, and for a brief moment, Draco Malfoy looks like nothing more than a nervous boy kissing a girl for the first time. Hermione lifts up on her tiptoes and presses her lips against his.

It’s like fire — a conflagration of heat and gentility. His hands hold her in place, and almost without thinking Hermione wraps her own arms around his back to pull him closer.

He sways away from her after only a moment; far too soon for her taste. His eyes are shadowed in questions. It feels like a secret, between them. Something sacred and unexpected. All thoughts of playing pretend seem to be thousands of miles away.

“I hardly think the first time you kiss me should be at our wedding,” Hermione whispers before he can speak. 

He doesn’t let go of her, but pain flashes on his face.

Unexpectedly, he murmurs, “Why did you tell me at Potter’s wedding that Molly Weasley was the most powerful witch in Britain?”

Hermione lets her arms fall slack from his back at his question, and he releases her as though she’s burning him. She wishes she’d said nothing to him at Harry’s wedding, but it’s too late now. He’ll never let it go.

“The Malfoy’s have always been wealthy,” she glances away. “But it’s not their money or their purity or whatever that made them so powerful, both now and throughout wizarding history.”

Draco studies her but doesn’t reply. She wraps her arms tightly over her chest, whether to soothe the ache of her ribcage or to prevent her from reaching for him again, she’s not sure.

She continues, less certain than before. “They’re powerful. _You’re_ powerful.”

“So what?” 

“I had a theory when the WPG first was announced,” Hermione admits.

Draco’s eyes are glittering, “Something different from the possible benefit to the Ministry from fortuitous business or economic matches theory?”

She doesn’t want to say it — it’s not even really a theory. It’s just what the WPG _is_. They had admitted it in that first black letter, and no matter what other reasons they may have for individual matches, there is always one outcome.

Draco knows it as well as she does.

“You think they’re breeding us for power.” His words loosen the knots in her shoulders; someone to carry this weight with her. 

“We already know it’s essentially a breeding program,” Hermione tells him. None of this is a surprise.

Draco nods, terse. “Yes. It is. But you think they’re matching people for power and interests to breed stronger magical lines. Stronger magical businesses and partnerships. It’s about the economy, but it’s more about _power_.”

“Yes.” 

“They said in the letter that they matched based on personality and magical signature.”

Hermione doesn’t even deem an answer worthwhile to that — they both know the Ministry has lied before. Besides, what does _magical signature_ even mean besides power?

“Who did Kingsley get?” Draco suddenly demands.

Hermione huffs, “We’d all like to know the answer to that. He’s probably the most powerful wizard living right now, perhaps other than Hawkworth himself—”

“Hawkworth is strong,” Draco interrupts, “but not in duelling magic. In a duel, he wouldn’t last a minute against Kingsley.”

She watches him, nervous to ask her next question. “Would you?”

Draco’s jaw clenches, “I don’t think I could beat him. He’s experienced — he’s been through two wars.”

“But?” Hermione adds softly.

Draco grimaces, “I fought him once. In the war. We were in a skirmish, and he went after Goyle. Greg was never a powerful duelist, so I engaged Shacklebolt so Greg could escape.”

“I remember,” Hermione breathes, clarity rushing through her. “He thought there might be at least one Death Eater who sympathized with the Order because of that.”

Draco’s eyes flick away from her. “He made a mistake. It wasn’t because of my skill, I just got lucky. I had a clear shot, and he knew it. He thought he was about to die — Death Eaters don’t… well, they shoot to kill.”

“You stunned him,” Hermione says. She knows the end of this story without hearing it. Kingsley hadn’t shut up about it for _days_ , the Death Eater who had purposefully let him go. He’d only given up on it nearly two weeks later when Lupin had been in a battle and come home covered in blood, barely alive. 

Malfoy looks miserable talking about the past, but he straightens his spine. 

“Let’s go find out.”

“What?” 

He shrugs, “You know where Shacklebolt lives — you must, otherwise, how could you threaten him over Harry Potter’s match? Let’s go there and find out who he got.”

Hermione feels her jaw drop, “You want me to go to the Minister of Magic’s house and just ask him who he got matched with, _despite_ the fact that the last time I appeared there I threatened to destroy the Ministry?”

“Hermione,” Draco looks like he might laugh, “don’t tell me your precious Gryffindor courage has deserted you. Besides, aren’t you _curious_?”

The mocking tone cuts her like a knife, and fury wells up inside her. She clenches his arm a little more tightly, and his smirk imprints on her brain as she apparates them away.

They land on the edge of a sidewalk, hard and stumbling. Hermione would have fallen to the ground, except that Draco’s other hand has gripped her hip tightly enough for bruises. He looks _sick_.

“This is wrong,” Hermione says when she can finally breathe properly.

Kingsley’s familiar house is nowhere to be seen — there are a few other houses, but the one she had visited nearly a month ago is gone.

“He banned you,” Draco growls. “He made it unplottable and got a new secret keeper. You can’t find it anymore, Granger.”

Hermione almost wants to cry — Kingsley Shacklebolt may currently be on her bad side for being a coward about the WPG, but she’d fought a war with him, and she had supported him as Minister of Magic. They were… friends, once.

A memory of hot rancid breath on her face in the forest hits her — she remembers holding as still as she could as Greyback smelled the surrounding air, sniffing her out by her perfume as she silently begged her wards to hold.

She may not be able to find Kingsley anymore, but she’s still willing to bet he’s watching for her. 

“Kingsley,” she says into the twilight air, her voice quiet but firm. “We know you’re breeding us purposefully for more powerful magical lines — so we want to know… who out there matches you in power?”

She almost expects Kingsley to appear. Draco’s hand is clutched in hers, and she’s not exactly sure when it happened, but she’s pleased that if Kingsley would see them right now, he would see nothing but a united force.

After an interminable silence, Draco sighs. “Let’s go home, Granger.”

It feels nice to let him wrap his arm around her shoulder and tug her into a side along, landing on the edge of the cottage property. He doesn’t remove it when they arrive.

She turns to him, and he is already watching her with hooded silver eyes.

“I had fun tonight,” she breathes, “despite our failed attempt at threatening the Minister of Magic.”

Draco Malfoy laughs — his whole face transforms, and Hermione finds herself grinning along with him. He’s so fucking beautiful, it’s devastating.

This time, she doesn’t press onto her tiptoes. He swoops down suddenly, kissing her harder than he had in the square. It’s still fairly chaste; just a press of warm lips, but Hermione still _burns_.

He pulls away, lips still curled up. She feels a shaking hand press into her lips, swollen from kisses and cool night air.

“I’ll see you on Sunday.” 

Hermione can feel her cheeks turning scarlet, “At the Muggle church?”

Draco nods solemnly, “I’ll be the one at the alter.”

Hermione turns to go inside her house, the weight of Draco’s stare on her back and the thousand questions she hasn't asked hanging on her head. She glances back at him at the doorstep. He hasn’t moved a muscle.

“Thank you,” Hermione says softly in the night air. She’s not really sure what she’s thanking him for — perhaps for the pleasant date, or being patient, or the kisses he had bestowed upon her. Perhaps for being kinder than she thought him capable of, or his desire to make this marriage less awful for them both.

Or perhaps for being willing to walk into a possible battle with a man he had admitted was stronger than he was, simply because she needed answers. 


	20. The Malfoy Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again so grateful for all of the incredible comments. I SO appreciate them and wish I could answer every single one. I hope you enjoy this (long-awaited) chapter. Please know that I am not posting this upcoming week as it's my birthday! So look forward to the next chapter that first weekend of February.

* * *

_November 14th, 1999 - Sunday_

* * *

To say that Draco is nervous is an understatement. He stands at the front of a small Muggle church called ‘St Catherine’s’, staring out into a small audience. Though he has grown used to the Muggle world over the past year, exploring around to escape the constant eyes of the wizarding world, he has never been inside of a church.

This one is small, with whitewashed stone walls and tall curved ceilings. There are stained glass windows high in the walls that spit kaleidoscopic patterns all over the dark wood pews. It’s really quite lovely, and Draco understands why Hermione wants to marry within the walls.

The guest list for the big day consists of Theodore and Luna Nott, who are sitting on the front pew to his left; entirely too many Weasleys, and Harry Potter himself. Draco wonders half hysterically what his younger self would say if he could see his future wedding. If he’d ever believe that he’d ever be married in a Muggle church, with his largest childhood rivals as witnesses, to his Muggleborn bride.

He was marrying _Hermione bloody Granger_.

He feels as though a slight breeze could knock him off the altar, and Draco has already sworn that he will _die_ before he faints at his own wedding in front of Scarhead.

He hasn’t seen her in almost three days, and the last time he had seen her, he’d _kissed_ her. The sight of her hair tangling in the cool November air, her rosy cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips have haunted him every moment of each day.

He half expects her not to show up, WPG be damned.

The music is his first clue — it begins softly, echoing throughout the small church. Draco has never heard the song before, though it is gentle and sweet, piano overlaid with a harp. It builds slowly, and the large doors swing open.

Hermione Granger stands at the end of the aisle in a traditional witch matrimonial gown — it’s a darker champagne colour with a more modest neckline and an emerald green sash, long flowing sleeves, and Draco’s knees feel vaguely wobbly.

She had dressed in Slytherincolours for him?

Her hair is down and wild; despite the many taunts he had tossed her way in their childhood, he’s actually quite partial to it, and he aches to kiss her again and tangle his hands in the curls. Other than the bracelet he had given her adorning her wrist, she only wears two sparkling pins in her hair. 

She walks herself down the aisle — some part of him had been sure that she would ask one or both other members of the golden trio to accompany her — yet she is alone.

As is he.

She meets him at the front altar, taking her place across from him. There are no flowers in her hands, and Draco reaches out naturally. She lets her fingers tangle in his and gives him a wry grin when the Ministry official Draco hired clears his throat.

“Honoured guests, we are gathered here today to tie Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy in matrimony to Miss. Hermione Jean Granger. Through their match, we have seen respect, contentment, and growth, not only within their relationship but also with the surrounding community. The Ministry offers their blessings to your marriage, and hopes that a deep connection will continue to blossom between you.”

Draco can feel his lip curling at the officiant’s contrived words — the _Ministry_ was offering their blessing to a match they had _forced_? 

A quick squeeze to his hand interrupts his fury, and his eyes track back to his bride-to-be. Hermione Granger is rolling her eyes, humour sparkling in their near-golden depths. His sneer fades away; there is no better feeling than having an inside joke with her. He scrunches his nose slightly and her lips turn up as though she might laugh.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco snaps his head back towards the officiant, who is staring at him expectantly.

“I do,” Draco says immediately. He has _no idea_ what the man had asked, but he’s reasonably sure he just agreed to marry Granger.

“And Miss Granger, do you agree to wed Mr. Malfoy and accept him as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.” 

“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Draco vividly remembers the way Potter had snatched at Ginny Weasley, kissing her so hard and passionately they had nearly tumbled off the damn stage. And, though he and Theo had raised their eyebrows at the crass behaviour, Draco is suddenly and immensely envious.

Hermione watches him through her long lashes, and Draco feels himself bend forward as though through molasses. He desperately wants to kiss her, but he also wishes he could just sink through the floor at the feeling of her friends' eyes on them.

Instead, he finds her lips softly and kisses her chastely. After a long moment, he pulls back and finds her watching him; he realizes belatedly he had shut his eyes.

The officiant leads them to a desk set away from the main altar and has them sign their marriage contract. He presses his wand to the paper, watching it glow in the same way Theo’s did only a week prior.

The paper reads _Draco Lucius Malfoy_ and _Hermione Jean Malfoy_. 

They walk together back down the aisle together once completing the ceremony, with their arms linked. It feels more uncomfortable than it did only a few days prior, and Draco suspects it’s because Ron Weasley is glaring at him at the same time that Luna is clapping off beat to the calm music playing. 

The doors close behind them, leaving them alone in the church's entrance. It’s much smaller and empty of people; a blessing that Draco knows will only last a few more moments. Their guests will exit the church proper and join them in moments, and it will force Draco to mingle with them before he can finally head home with Hermione.

_Home_.

He’s bloody lightheaded.

“Are you alright?” Her voice reaches him from afar, and he glances down to his bride to find her biting at her lip. It’s the first time she’s spoken to him all day, and she is now his _wife_.

Draco knows his mother would be _horrified_ if she could see him right now — and not in the same way Lucius Malfoy would have been. Though Narcissa had also been pureblood and raised to believe Muggleborns were lesser than herself, she had not been quite as fervent in her hatred of them as his father. No, Narcissa Malfoy would be less appalled at his choice of a bride than she would be at his _manners_.

It snaps him into motion, the thought of his mother’s disappointment. He turns to face Hermione fully and sighs out a breath.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her, skimming his fingertips down the gauzy material of her sleeves. “I can’t believe you wore Slytherin green and silver for me.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at his cocky smirk, “Well, I was told it was traditional.”

“Where on earth did you get the gown?” Draco asks. He’s hardly about to insult her by saying there was nothing _traditional_ about her.

“Molly Weasley gave it to me,” Hermione swallows hard, voice going choked. “At Harry’s wedding. I altered it a bit, but it’s very similar to her original.”

The absence of her parents is a gaping hole, and Draco hasn’t pushed her before, because he knows what it is to want to not discuss one’s missing parents; still, he feels the questions on the tip of his tongue.

The doors swing wide behind them, breaking the tension, and they turn to find Ginny Potter beaming. She rushes forward and wraps Hermione in her arms. Her family follows, and Draco watches as his bride is surrounded by people who love her.

Arms startle him out of his thoughts and he freezes as Luna Lovegood — no, Luna Nott, now — squeezes him in a hug. Theo is watching her with a disbelieving look on his face.

“Draco Malfoy,” Luna murmurs airily, “congratulations. You couldn’t have married a better witch.”

Although the WPG forced this marriage, Draco bites his tongue because he somehow suspects Luna might be correct. She releases him as abruptly as she had embraced him and doesn’t seem particularly bothered that he never returned the hug.

Theo sticks his hand out, and Draco shakes it easily.

“Shite officiant, mate,” Theo says genially, “but the church was nice.”

Draco huffs a small laugh, “Same could be said about your wedding, Nott.”

Theo grins, and a throat clears. Draco turns to face Ron Weasley, who has his arm around his mother, who is crying openly into a blue handkerchief.

“Thank you for inviting us to the wedding,” Weasley’s voice is frosty, “we have to be off, now.”

“Thanks for coming,” Draco replies, almost dumbfounded at Potter’s sidekick even deigning to speak to him.

The Weasley parents and Ron disappear far faster than Draco would have expected, and all that is left is Harry Potter with his bride, Theo and Luna, and Hermione, still looking stunning in her wedding gown. Ginny is talking animatedly to Granger, and they look involved in their conversation.

Harry Potter approaches him, and Draco can feel Theo tense slightly at his side. Battle-ready.

“ _muffliato_ ,” Harry mutters when he gets close, “Listen Malfoy, let’s make this quick. Can you apparate to the Burrow? You’ve been there before, for the wedding.”

“Yes, I could. Why?” Draco answers uneasily.

Harry’s eyes shift quickly to Ginny and back. The girls still seem engrossed in their talk. “Molly’s planned a small reception — nothing big! But I know Hermione planned nothing, and I think it would be a shame not to see her friends and have dinner. Can you get her to the Burrow?”

“Are you asking me to trick my wife on our wedding day, Potter?” Draco drawls.

Harry rolls his eyes, “Can you do it or not, Malfoy?”

“I can,” he replies.

Harry Potter nods once, then waves his wand subtly at his side, dismissing the _muffliato_.

“Hermione, we also have to get going, but you look beautiful. Let’s get together soon, okay?” Harry interrupts, and Ginny has a suspiciously mischevious glint in her eyes. Hermione doesn’t seem to notice and hugs them both one more time.

“Don’t suppose you’re coming?” Draco murmurs at Theo, standing close enough to hear.

Theo rolls his eyes, “Unfortunately yes. Luna says we can’t miss it.”

“Never thought I’d say this, mate, but thank goodness for Luna Lovegood.”

“Luna Nott,” Theo corrects, a hint of pride lacing his voice. Draco grins; it’s good to see his best friend happy.

“We’re off as well, Hermione,” Luna’s voice is gentle, “but it was a lovely wedding. Not one Nargle in sight.”

“Luna, Theo, thank you for coming,” Hermione replies, bemusement colouring her tone at Luna’s words. 

Soon enough, Draco is alone with his wife — and _truly_ alone this time, with no friends about to pop in and interrupt them. 

“They left much quicker than I expected,” Hermione muses.

“Are you tired?” Draco asks. He wonders suddenly if it was a mistake to agree to Potter’s plan — if Granger would rather go home.

She turns to him, “Oh, no. I’m fine. I expected them to visit more, actually.”

She seems disappointed that the Weasley’s left so quickly, and Draco is buoyed by the idea that even though it is not his surprise, he will still be the one to give it to her simply by apparating her there.

“We can always visit another day,” Draco says off-handedly. “Shall we head home? I can side along us there.”

Her head tilts when she turns to face him squarely, and Draco is suddenly terrified she’ll refuse to side along with him.

“You look handsome,” Hermione says, instead. Her cheeks are pink, and it looks as though it took an immense amount of courage to say the words. 

Draco grins, “Well, I could hardly let you be the most beautiful thing in the room, I have a reputation to uphold.”

Granger laughs suddenly, “Your _ego_ , Malfoy, is the size of this bloody church. I suppose I should be pleased I was second, then?”

Draco swallows and pulls her hand into his, “I hardly think you’ve ever come second in anything, Granger. Definitely not this.”

It’s far too much — 

The humour fades from Hermione’s golden eyes but instead is replaced by something far softer. She lets herself lean into him, wrapping her hand in his easily.

“Let’s go home,” she murmurs, “you big _flirt_.”

Draco laughs, and they disappear with a pop.

They reappear within moments, but instead of being in front of their cottage, they are on the lawn of the Burrow. Though it is November, the Weasley’s have charmed the front area to be warm, with a few roaring fires blazing around. 

Draco tightens his arm around Hermione because the idea of people yelling _surprise_ at her can only end badly.

Instead, the assembled group stays quiet, and Hermione goes rigid but then relaxes at the sight of the Burrow.

“Surprise,” Molly Weasley says calmly, walking towards them with no tears in sight. “I know you didn’t want a big reception, Hermione, but I can hardly have you go home hungry, so I thought something small would do the trick. Thank you for bringing her here, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Draco is fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco tells her, surprising himself even as he speaks.

“You _knew?_ ” Hermione Granger narrows golden eyes on him, and Draco smirks.

Her indignation seems to be the spark that allows the party to start because suddenly laughter and conversation break out. Hermione doesn’t let go of his arm, even as she greets a few people.

“Thanks for getting her here,” Harry Potter says when he approaches. Draco nods in acknowledgement, and Hermione positively _beams_.

“Harry,” she grins, “I never thought I’d see the day you conspired with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry shrugs, “Never thought I’d see the day where you _married_ him.”

Draco scowls, but Hermione laughs and squeezes his arm. She opens her mouth as if to retort, but is interrupted by Ron and Hannah Abbott appearing.

“Hey Hermione,” Hannah Abbott greets, then glances nervously at him, “Malfoy.”

“Come eat,” Ron invites, “Mum made all your favourites! And even _George_ is here! He brought Parvati.”

Hermione is glowing with happiness, and Draco finds himself powerless to stop her from dragging towards a buffet-style table. Witches and wizards are gathered around, all smiling. It feels almost surreal. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many happy people in his life.

Draco recognizes most of them — if not from school, then from the many Death Eater meetings he attended that had placed prices on the heads of everyone surrounding him. He sees Arthur Weasley talking to what can only be one of his sons; Draco can’t keep track of the Weasley brood. This one has scars marring his face and an easygoing smile as he speaks with his father, despite it all.

Draco can practically hear his own father’s snarl in his ear. 

Hermione’s hip bumps his, “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, “Nothing.”

Draco forces himself to look down at her and push the ghosts of his past down and snags the small dumpling from her hand to eat it. Her cheeks mottle pink.

“Hey! I was going to eat that,” She protests.

Draco smirks, “What’s mine is yours, _wife_.”

His heart almost stops as he says the word, but Granger just grins and rolls her eyes. She picks up another dumpling and bumps her hip against his again.

Draco realizes abruptly that he’s _fucked_. 

He has never seen this — never had this. Any relationship he’d ever had in Hogwarts had been cultivated through pureblood ideals or set up by his parents. When Voldemort had branded him, that had all stopped, because he could barely keep himself alive, let alone someone else. 

The thought of giving a part of himself away to another is so abhorrent; there is just so little of him left.

And yet — it’s nice. It’s nice that Granger’s gold eyes sparkle with laughter and secrets; it’s easy to be in her presence, and a part of him never wants it to stop.

“You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost, mate.” Theo appears with a signature smirk. Luna isn’t far behind, and she has the most ridiculous hot pink glasses on covering half her face. She stops just behind Theo, nearly running into him.

“Feel a bit like it,” Malfoy mutters, tilting his head towards the Weasley clan. Nott’s lips drag down.

“I know what you mean.”

Draco watches as Hermione gets pulled away and into a conversation with Molly Weasley. They’re both smiling. 

“Oi, ferret!” 

Draco turns despite himself and comes face to face with a grinning George Weasley. He’s got a familiar witch at his side — one of the Patil twins, but Draco’s never been able to tell them apart. He hadn’t been able to tell the Weasley twins apart in Hogwarts either. It seems he will no longer have that issue. 

“Weasel,” Draco replies coolly.

George laughs and extends his hand, “I’m George, and this is Parvati.”

“Theo,” Nott reaches behind him and pulls Luna to his side. She’s still wearing the ridiculous glasses and staring at the sky with a frown. “I believe you know my wife, Luna.”

Parvati smiles easily, no shock present at Theo’s words. “Hey, Luna. Find any Wrackspurts?”

Luna turns towards Parvati and slides her glasses up her face until they sit on top of her head. “Not yet. How’s Padma?”

“She’s good. She was supposed to come here today actually, with Blaise Zabini, but something came up.” 

Luna presses a finger to her chin, “Too bad. There are too few of us Ravenclaws around these days.” 

George Weasley glances around the small crowd as though he’s only just realized that Ravenclaw is the most underrepresented house in their group.

“I heard Cho Chang married Terrence Higgs,” George shifts his weight and brings his gaze back to Draco and Theo. “Slytherin.”

Draco winces. Terrence had been vicious to the bone from the very first moment Draco had met him in Slytherin dungeon. He knows virtually nothing about Cho Chang, but he hopes she’s got a few hexes up her sleeve.

“Bastard,” Theo mutters, unconsciously pulling Luna closer to him.

George shuffles, fidgety as though nervous. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen either Weasley twin anxious before.

“Listen, Malfoy,” George says, “How do you feel about champagne?”

Draco frowns, “It’s… fine? I’m more of a firewhiskey fan, personally.”

“Oh, great!” George exclaims, almost robotically. “You should stick to that! For most events. All, preferably. We have some here, actually. Yes! Let’s have a toast!”

George Weasley spins away and rushes towards a bar cart, Parvati following much more sedately.

“What in the bloody _hell_ was that about?” Theo mutters, green eyes narrowed.

Draco shrugs and stares with bafflement as George returns with two Firewhiskeys, which he hands to Draco and Theo. Parvati brings a glass of wine for Luna. 

“None for you?” Draco asks.

George shrugs, “Perhaps later.”

“Well, I for one would like to toast my best mate,” Theo says after an awkward pause. “Malfoy — you’ve always been a bit of a pompous git who was too smart for his own good.”

“Gee, thanks Theo,” Draco rolls his eyes.

Theo laughs, “Let me finish! You’re a prat, but — well. You’re my best friend. I’m proud of you. Not just for marrying Granger, but… well, for becoming someone who could be worthy of marrying Granger.” Theo clears his throat, “Besides. It’ll be nice to _finally_ have someone intelligent to converse with around here.”

Draco flips his best friend off and coughs to clear his abruptly clogged throat. “Sod off, mate.”

Theo laughs, and they all clink their glasses together. Draco glances around and finds Hermione talking to Ronald Weasley at the edge of the buffet table. Her face is pale and her hands are shaking.

“Excuse me,” Draco murmurs, dropping his firewhiskey on the edge of the nearest table and strides towards his bride.

Even as he gets closer, there is no sound. Hermione’s mouth moves, a frown tugging at her lips, and Draco can’t tell what she’s saying. The dull noise of the party echoes around him, but his wife might as well be _silent_.

She finally notices him when he’s only a few feet away, and despite her casual movement, Draco is no fool. Her eyes cut to Ronald Weasley, and the red-headed man flicks his wrist at his side. 

“Draco,” she smiles, “did you eat?”

He’s tempted to ask her about it. What could be so important she had to use a silencing spell in the middle of their makeshift reception? 

The words are on the tip of the tongue when she sways. It’s not even a stumble, she just moves lightly as though the wind has pushed her.

Her wedding dress is fluttering around her, her curls growing wilder by the moment, and her hands are shaking, and Ronald-bloody-Weasley has done something to stress her out on her _wedding day_. Thoughts of murder dance around his brain.

Instead, he moves forward and lets his arm curve around her waist. 

“I did,” he confirms, “Molly Weasley is a wonderful cook. Would you like another drink?”

“Sure,” She agrees easily, and Draco moves to lead her away.

“Hermione,” Ron’s voice is a warning, but he barely has her name out before her eyes are flashing at his.

“Leave it, Ronald.” She hisses, “Enough. That’s enough.”

Ron’s shoulders slump. To Draco’s shock, he doesn’t even spare him a furious glance and instead disappears.

“Can I ask—”

“No.” Hermione snaps. She seems to immediately regret her tone and glances at him guardedly. “Sorry. I meant… not… now. Please.”

Draco frowns but nods. “Come this way. There’s a table we can sit down at.”

“I can stand,” Hermione protests.

He regards her coolly. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, Granger.”

They stare at each other. He watches the slightest tremble in her lip. The moment feels fraught with tension.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Draco is rarely sure of anything in this life anymore, but he would swear on his entire fortune that Hermione Malfoy nee Granger is not apologizing for snapping at him.

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” He urges her forward again, breaking their stare. They make it to the table where Molly Weasley is sitting with Arthur and Harry Potter. Granger sits on his right. 

“Hermione, you looked so beautiful today,” Molly says immediately. “I’m so honoured you wore the dress — and I’m so glad you took the shoulders down, dear. Honestly, I have _no idea_ what we were thinking when that was a fashion.”

Hermione smirks, “That trend was also popular in the muggle world, too.”

Arthur Weasley’s eyes light up, “Really? Do we often mimic muggle clothing trends?”

Draco watches as Hermione laughs and tries to explain increasingly absurd clothing trends that Muggles wear. Some, such as leather jackets, have a certain appeal; however, as he learns of leg warmers and corduroy overalls, Draco reasons that there may in fact be fates worse than death. 

As Arthur Weasley continues to rave about an invention called ‘parachute pants’, Draco watches the last of the tension fade from Hermione’s shoulders. She’s giggling almost uncontrollably, and Draco contents himself on the fringe of conversations, Firewhiskey in hand. 

A chiming noise draws their attention, and Draco looks over to see that Potter has stood up and is tapping his knife gently against his champagne flute.

“I’d like to propose a toast. To Hermione: you are the sister I never had, and the smartest woman I have ever known. You have saved my life more times than I can count, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Harry’s green eyes look glossy, and he clears his throat before continuing. “And to Malfoy — I wish you the best. And she **is** the best. So don’t bugger it up, alright?”

Draco feels himself exhale. All things considered, that could have been a thousand times worse. He raises his glass in acknowledgement and to his surprise multiple Weasley’s reach to tap their glasses against his. 

“Cheers,” Granger murmurs, tapping her champagne flute against his glass of Firewhiskey. 

The toasting continues, but the makeshift reception is slowly dying down. Hermione keeps to the table mostly, basking in her loved one's presence. Ginny Weasley starts up a game of Quidditch in the back of the yard and had even invites him to play. He declines, mostly due to the fact that he’s wearing his wedding robes, but also because he hardly relishes the idea of being chosen last for teams.

“You could have played, I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Draco glances at his bride, “Next time. Are you ready to head home?”

“Godric, yes,” she murmurs, “if I never have to wear these bloody shoes again it will be too soon.”

Draco chuckles and stands, offering her his arm. She takes it and they make their way to Molly Weasley; she brushes away their appreciation for the small reception with tears and endless hugs for Granger.

This time, when they depart, Draco is tugged away with the force of her magic when she side-alongs him, the gentle squeeze she delivers to his forearm the last thing he feels before the apparition pulls him away. 


	21. Peppermint and Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you for your patience with this chapter, and for all of the birthday wishes. I am hoping to get back to a regular schedule, and you can expect the next chapter, not this coming Sunday but the following (Feb 21). This chapter is a long one, and for the most part, it's fluffy, so enjoy that. As always, please mind the tags.

The awkwardness doesn’t set into her bones until she has kicked off her torturous shoes and Draco has hung his outer robe on the rack. The cottage is chilly, despite the warm lights, and her stupid transfigured couch seems to mock her loneliness.

“Well, here we are.” Hermione babbles into the sudden silence. “I’ll just put on a cup of tea and mmf—”

Draco cuts her off by kissing her. He traces her mouth with his own, and she can feel their breath mingling. She lets herself sway into him unconsciously, stunned by the heat that races up her spine. His fingers tangle into her curls, and she gasps into his mouth. His tongue licks into her, and her body finally gets with the program and she clings to his broad shoulders, biting at his lips.

He pulls away after an endless amount of time. They’re both panting. Her lips feel kiss swollen, and Draco’s cheeks are flushed. Hermione can feel the blood pounding under her skin and prays she doesn’t resemble a tomato. 

“I wish I kissed you like that,” Draco murmurs, as though it’s a secret.

“You did,” Hermione answers breathlessly.

He laughs, “No. I mean today, at the wedding. I was nervous, but it’s no excuse. I should have kissed you like that.”

Hermione grins, “Well, I hardly think our guests would have appreciated it.”

“Potter nearly knocked the Weaselette off the damn altar trying to kiss her. They hardly have room to complain.”

She laughs. It feels soaked in relief. “He did, didn’t he?”

Draco presses his forehead to hers, and Hermione finds out her eyes have closed only when she opens them to silver. He’s watching her intently. Draco Malfoy has never watched her this way before; all intensity and _heat_.

“Dance with me.” 

It’s not a request, and though Hermione hates dancing, she finds she is already swaying with him. He’s holding half her weight up, and the floor feels cool against her sore feet. There is no music, but the wind is gentle against the cottage roof, and silence, Hermione has found, is a blessed rarity.

“I moved things around for you,” Hermione whispers. 

Draco nods against her skin. “I like the couch.”

“I thought… I thought we could sit on it.” She admits. So fucking _vulnerable_.

“That’s generally what one does on a couch, Granger.” She can feel Draco smirking against her temple.

“I meant — together.” 

Draco pulls back only long enough to study her eyes. “I’m amenable to that.”

Hermione lets her eyes close, his gaze settling into her bones. The moment stretches on — she is _safe_.

“Granger,” Draco’s voice is impossibly gentle, “I realize I owe you an apology.”

She stills — he keeps holding her, his fingers tangling in her curls against her shoulder blades. He looks rumpled and soft in a way she never could have imagined Draco Malfoy being. Warm.

“Why _did_ you write me that letter?” Hermione whispers. Curiosity burns inside of her; she has wondered for _months_.

The first shadow of a frown graces his face, “Honestly?”

Hermione nods.

Their swaying has stopped, but his hands have yet to leave her. She doesn’t mind.

“My mother convinced me.” Draco admits, “She was… not always lucid, at the end.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione breathes. Narcissa has always hung between them; questions they both want to ask.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Draco shakes his head.

Hermione swallows hard, “Was she… ill?”

“Not really,” Draco whispers. His eyes fall shut, and he sucks in a breath. “She and my father were bonded. Like Potter and the She-Weasel are now— where they tie their magic cores together? It’s very common with purebloods, and Malfoy’s have always bonded with their spouse.”

“Until now,” Hermione breathes. Another thing she has changed for him.

Draco huffs, “That would have changed whether or not I married you, Granger. There is nothing on this earth that could convince me to bond.”

Hermione stays quiet, but the familiar rush of curiosity eats at her. The corner of Draco’s mouth curls up, as though he is almost unwillingly amused by her insatiable questions. She hasn’t even _asked_ anything yet!

“Well,” she mutters primly, “I’m glad to hear it. Frankly, I think it’s a bloody stupid thing to do, and I _told_ Harry so, but he refused to listen. He never wants to be without Ginny.”

Malfoy sniffs, “It’s a nice thought, I suppose. The bond, _iungo_ , is supposed to be about love, but in my experience, it’s about control.”

Hermione swallows, “What do you mean?” 

“The bond _does_ give a boost in power,” Draco explains, “but it makes separation or infidelity of any kind basically impossible. There are no choices. Even the smallest doubts can cause your magic to falter.”

Hermione nods, “I told Harry that there were cases recorded where one partner died, and the other followed not long after.”

“Yes.”

Hermione stills, her heart dropping in her chest. “Is… is that what happened?”

He nods, his palms pressing into the back of her wedding dress. They feel almost uncomfortably warm. 

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione murmurs. She hasn’t heard him speak favourably of his father since fourth year, and the revelation that his beloved mother _literally_ followed Lucius into the grave is unwelcome.

Draco rolls his eyes, “Once again, Granger, this is not your fault.”

“You keep calling me that,” Hermione replies mildly.

“What?”

“Granger,” Hermione lets her fingers press into his shoulder blades. “It’s Malfoy, now. Or Hermione.”

“I somehow think I might have a tough time with that, Granger.”

“Well, _Malfoy_ ,” Hermione sniffs, fighting a smile, “turnabout is fair play.”

Draco huffs a laugh and releases her. Her back feels cold without the weight of his hands on it.

“Come, I’ll make some tea,” He moves towards the kitchen cupboards.

“You didn’t finish your story,” Hermione protests, following him to lean against the counter. “Your mother… she convinced you to send that letter?”

Draco sighs, “I think she wanted me to repair the Malfoy name. It was… hard for her to see how my father’s — well, how the war and our role in it reflected on me. I wrote the letter at her urging.”

Hermione watches as he uses his wand to summon what he needs, his eyes tracking where they emerge from. She realizes he’s learning her kitchen, taking stock of everything. His _home_ , now.

“I kept it,” Hermione admits.

Draco turns, his silver eyes landing on her. “What?”

“Your letter. I kept it. I still have it in my office. When the WPG was first announced, I used to read it over and over before bed, praying that you meant it.”

“I did,” Draco breathes, taking a hesitant step towards her. “I do.”

She meets him in the middle, and they watch each other. Everything about this feels fragile — a marriage forced upon them, a friendship found naturally.

“Hermione, I _am_ sorry.” Draco’s words are dripping with sincerity. “For both my actions in the war and in school. If I could take it all back, I would. A thousand times over.”

Hermione swallows — her arm _burns_ as though every hate-filled emotion Bellatrix fucking Lestrange forced upon her has bubbled to the surface. She stares at Draco Malfoy; the boy who made her cry for _years_ , the son of a Death Eater and the nephew of the one who still haunts her waking nightmares.

Her husband. 

She had forgiven him long ago — she had even told him, in the letter she had written after Narcissa died. 

“Draco, I told you before. I forgive you,” she says. “We were _children_. We were all just fucking children.”

Draco stares at her as though she is some sort of arithmancy problem he cannot solve, but he is determined to try. The kettle’s shrill whistle draws him out of his stupor, and he turns away to prepare the cups of tea.

When he hands it to her, it is exactly the way she likes it.

“You know, you never answered me.” Hermione muses, sipping carefully at the steaming drink. “How do you know how I take my tea?”

Draco laughs unexpectedly, “Granger — I went to school with you for _years_. I know we weren’t friends, but I’m not an idiot.”

Hermione stares into her milky cup as though it holds all the answers. In some ways, she thinks it might.

“No, you’re not.” She agrees easily. “But I still think you might know for another reason.”

Draco huffs, “What do you want me to say, Granger? That I paid attention to you, even back then?”

Hermione lifts her eyebrows, and Draco rolls his eyes in embarrassment. She sips her tea quietly, giving him a moment.

“For what it’s worth,” Hermione says, “I’m glad I got your name.”

Malfoy’s cup rattles in its saucer as he sets it down. He swallows hard, and Hermione tracks the movement. Every inch of him is devastatingly handsome, and despite the tarnished Malfoy name, Hermione is not fool enough to imagine that other witches didn’t want him as their match in the WPG. If not for his looks, then for his money.

He clears his throat. “Yes, well, Granger, you’re not half bad either.”

Hermione laughs.

Draco steps closer to her. They are barely a hand span apart now, and her laugh dies in her throat. He reaches out and touches the emerald lace at her waist, tracing it gently until it folds itself into the champagne of the dress.

“Today,” Draco swallows, “Weasley said something that upset you.”

Hermione stiffens, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His hand is still warm on her waist, and he curls it closer, wrapping his fingers against the curve of her ribs. Hermione sets her empty teacup down so she can use both hands to steady herself on his chest.

“Okay,” Draco agrees, “But only because you look so lovely in your dress.” 

Hermione blushes, and Draco leans down to kiss her again. She can hardly recall ever being snogged so often, but she melts into him as though it is second nature.

This time, she is the first to pull away, and she smiles at his scowl.

“I have a wedding gift for you,” she tells him.

Surprise flickers over his face, and Hermione steps away, letting her fingers tangle with his as she leads him from the front room. He follows her dutifully down their hallway until they reach their bedroom.

 _Their_ bedroom — the thought is intimidating, and Hermione shoves everything about it away so she can focus. She makes her way to the bed and pulls a small velvet bag out of the nightstand.

Draco is leaning against the doorframe.

“Come here,” she calls, sitting primly on the bed. Her wedding dress splays over her bedcovers, and Hermione stares down at the fabric. It’s the most elaborately beautiful thing she’s ever worn. There is nothing she can ever give Molly Weasley to repay her.

Draco sits beside her gingerly, silent as she stares at her gown. After a long moment, she shakes her head and glances up at him, only to find him watching her with serious eyes.

“Here,” she passes him the small bag. 

He takes it from her hand and smirks. It’s obvious by the square shape and weight what it is.

“Why am I not surprised that Hermione Granger buys books as wedding presents?” He asks with a chuckle.

“Oh, just open it.” She commands impatiently.

He dumps the contents into his hands gently, a smaller leather-bound book tumbling out. It’s very thin, with black leather and an embossed silver D. M. on the front. 

He runs a thumb over the letters, the smallest smile playing about his mouth. He flips open to the first page, brushing his knuckles against the thick paper.

The first page is blank, other than a single quotation curled in gold letters in the middle of the paper.

_“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind._ _’_ _-_ _C.S. Lewis_ _”_

“I’ve charmed it,” Hermione explains nervously, “I’ve got the matching twin. Anything you write in there will appear in mine. I thought that we… well, I’ve enjoyed writing letters with you.”

Draco’s eyes raise to hers after what seems an eternity. They are silver and unfathomable, and Hermione fidgets anxiously. Can he see how much hope she has poured into this little book? Is it obvious that despite the fury with which she intends to fight the WPG, she has no intentions of fighting with _him?_

Hermione isn’t sure whether she wants him to understand this gesture; isn’t sure she’s ready to be so visible.

“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “It’s lovely.”

“You’ll write to me?” She asks. It feels as though her ribcage is contracting inside her chest.

Draco nods slowly. “Yes. Of course.”

They watch each other — the tentative peace settling into them.

“I’ve also got something for you,” Draco admits suddenly. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small box, only to set it in her trembling fingers.

“Oh, you didn’t have—”

“Potter’s wife reliably informed me that the muggle custom of exchanging rings at one’s wedding is now very popular amongst wizards and witches as well,” Draco interrupts, “I didn’t realize it was so, otherwise I would have given this to you sooner.”

Hermione lifts the lid of the velvet box to find a ring sparkling up at her. The band is twined together like ivy, reminiscent of the bracelet on her wrist. The diamond sparkles up at her, oval-shaped and large. 

“Oh my,” Hermione breathes.

“I must admit, it is one of the more _subdued_ pieces in the Malfoy vault,” Draco continues, “but I assumed by your reaction to the bracelet that you seemed to prefer a less… flashy style.”

Hermione gapes at him, “ _This_ is subdued?!”

The lightest of blushes grace Draco’s cheekbones, and Hermione realizes she has not thanked him for her gift. He’s been practically _babbling_.

“Sorry,” she rushes, “sorry. It’s stunning, I didn’t—, sorry, I meant — Godric, okay. Put it on me?”

Draco’s is positively red now, though he reaches for the ring in her palm. She holds out her hand and he slides it onto her finger. They both stare at it.

“I should get you one,” Hermione says. Her heart is battering against her chest, and she wonders if this is what it will always feel like. Barely treading water but burning alive.

Draco shakes his head, “No. This is plenty. But I might put some of my clothes away and change out of my robes.”

Hermione leaps to her feet, startled at his words. She can feel her skin burning with the force of her blush, and she rushes over to the dresser that she had half-cleared out.

“I made some space,” she says, gesturing at the drawers, “And I cleaned out half the closet. I’ll just take my pyjamas to the bathroom and let you unpack for a bit, shall I?”

She snatches at the first set of pyjamas she finds and disappears out of the bedroom, closing herself into the bathroom. The edge of the tub is cool and solid under her fingertips, and she stares down at the unfamiliar diamond glittering up at her.

She feels almost as though she’s choking; unable to get the oxygen she needs. Panic chokes her, and Hermione forces herself to list the ways in which she is safe. She is _home_ , safe inside her wards. Her wand is in her hand. Malfoy won’t hurt her.

She gasps for air, forcing herself to count with each inhale. With a wave of her wand, the fastenings on the back of her wedding gown release, and Hermione lets it collect in a heap at her ankles. In only her underthings, she climbs into the tub and sits against the side. It’s cool against the porcelain, and despite the lack of bathwater, she breathes in slowly and forces herself to relax.

Her heartbeat slows in increments, and for the first time since she shut the door she breathes.

She is _married_. To _Draco Malfoy_.

Hermione Granger has never been a fool — even in Hogwarts, Draco had buzzed around her brain more often than most other boys. At first, his initial taunting and torment had stuck into her like blades until she learned how to snap and snarl back. Later, despite her dislike of him, she hadn’t quite been able to shake him. In fourth year, catching his gaze at the Yule Ball and finding no disgust or hatred in his eyes for the first time had left her breathless; and in fifth year, when she had helplessly watched as he had faded into a shadow of himself, she had dreamed of saving him. 

When Harry had nearly killed him with that _stupid_ spell, she had hovered outside the hospital wing until Madame Pomfrey sent her away.

When he had refused to identify them at the Manor, Hermione had nurtured the smallest coil of hope; one she had carried through as she testified at his trial in front of the Wizengamot.

Hermione muffles a half-hysterical giggle with her palm, half biting into the skin. She wonders if she’s going into shock. She wonders what her younger self would have said if she had told her one day she’d be sitting half-naked in an empty bathtub panicking over the fact that Draco Malfoy was unpacking his clothing next door. In _their_ bedroom. Her _husband_.

Hermione pulls herself together and clambers out of the tub, feeling slightly more stable. Her pyjamas are soft and familiar against her skin, and although she adored her wedding gown, it feels safe in the cotton of her sleepwear. She marches back to her bedroom, summoning Gryffindor courage along the way, only to find the room unchanged. She yanks open the closet doors and hangs her dress beside an abundance of unfamiliar black wizard robes, and focuses entirely on getting through her wedding night.

Malfoy is sitting on the couch with a green blanket around his legs when she finally gathers the courage to go looking. Steam curls up from the teacup in his hand, and he looks artfully mussed and unbothered. He glances up at her, a smirk decorating his lips.

“Finished hiding?”

Hermione scowls, “I was _not_ hiding. I just… needed to change.”

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow, and Hermione fights back what seems to be a permanent blush. She sniffs and plops down on the couch, as far from her husband as she can get.

“I assume that unlike a regular person, you didn’t schedule a day off after your wedding and you’re expected to be at work tomorrow?” 

Hermione glances at him, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I have to work tomorrow.”

“So I’ll cancel the honeymoon to Paris, then?” Draco drawls, picking up his teacup and sipping at it.

Hermione splutters, “What? Paris?! You didn’t even—”

A low chuckle stops her words, and Malfoy grins, “I’m _joking_ , Granger, relax. I didn’t book a honeymoon.”

“Good,” Hermione says primly, sitting more firmly back into the couch cushions. “For the record, _if_ we were to take a holiday, it surely wouldn’t be during the time the Ministry mandated marriage and population law came into effect, especially seeing that I’m intending to destroy it.”

Malfoy actually laughs at that, and Hermione glances over to watch him toss his platinum hair back, the long line of his throat bare.

“Making plans to destroy the law, Granger? Or are you planning on taking on the Ministry itself?”

Hermione snaps, “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

Something akin to pride burns in Malfoy’s silver eyes; it’s not an unfamiliar expression, but Hermione has never seen it directed at _her_.

“No,” Draco sips his tea, hiding a half-smile behind the rim of his cup. “It surely wouldn’t. And I know better than to doubt the golden girl.”

Hermione plays with the hem of her shirt, nervous in the face of Draco’s teasing. His compliments. “Well. Good.”

Draco is silent for a long moment before he announces: “Well if we must do without a honeymoon, I do have a request.” 

Hermione glances up. “What is it?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to retrieve Taffy and a few of my books,” Draco says, leaning forward to set his teacup on the low coffee table in front of the couch. “I know Juney would love to have access to the cottage. She’d love it even more if you’d let her make dinner for us.”

She tries to picture it — coming home to Juney with her ridiculously blue eyes and knitted hats. Fighting for the rights of house-elves while enjoying the indentured slavery of her own.

“Malfoy, I have been fighting for house-elf rights and freedom since I was thirteen. You cannot possibly think that I’d be okay with Juney’s situation.” 

She can feel the weight of Draco’s silver eyes on her, and his annoyance is palpable.

“And what _exactly_ do you believe is Juney’s situation?”

Hermione sniffs, “I know that the Malfoy’s have had house-elves for years. I know Dobby was one of them, and he was treated poorly.”

“Dobby was my _father’s_ elf—” Draco snaps.

“Stop,” Hermione interrupts, “stop, please. I _know_ you don’t treat Juney poorly, Malfoy. I’m not saying that. I just… cannot have her as a slave in this house.”

Hermione stiffens her spine and glances up, meeting Draco’s glare with her own. His knuckles are white against the green blanket on his legs, and if she hadn’t already guessed that she’d offended him, she is under no illusions when she sees his scowl.

“What would you have me do, Granger?” Draco’s voice is cold. “Because if I were to set Juney free, it would break her heart. She’s been with my mother and I for _years_.”

Hermione watches as Draco sneers at her — the words unspoken: _it would break Draco’s heart_. The very last connection to his mother. The last of his family.

“I like Juney,” Hermione blurts, changing tactics. “She’s lovely. And I’d love to have her here, and it would be very helpful to have someone to cook and perhaps do some gardening.”

Malfoy blinks, narrowing his eyes as he calculates. “You want me to free her… and then hire her?”

Hermione forces herself not to smile, “Yes. I was under the impression that you were rich. Can you not spare a few galleons for a beloved house-elf?”

To her surprise, Draco Malfoy stares at her for a beat too long before he huffs. He stands suddenly, and Hermione barely conceals her flinch.

“Alright. You win, Granger.” He concedes, tossing his blanket back onto the couch and picking up his teacup. “I’ll speak with Juney tomorrow about adequate terms of employment if it will make you happy.”

Hermione watches as her husband marches to their small kitchen, setting his teacup into the sink. He braces his hands on the edge of the counter and stares out the window into the darkness.

Hermione unwinds the tension from her shoulders and forces herself to stand, moving to the kitchen and sliding in beside him. There’s not much space, her hips bump into his, but she doesn’t pull away. Only a handful of hours ago they shared kisses and dances, and even though she’s not exactly sure what this marriage is, she knows one thing: they’re friends.

“It will,” she whispers, sliding her fingers over his. “Make me happy, I mean.” 

Malfoy glances at her. The anger that had been present in his eyes gone, and he offers her a lazy smirk.

“Then consider it done.”

She lets her lips curl up in a smile. “Hey Malfoy”

“Yes?”

“I’m tired,” Hermione admits. Her heart is pounding again.

“Then go to sleep.” His snarky tone is familiar; every ounce of her wants to recoil, and yet she is a Gryffindor.

Hermione sucks in a breath and summons her courage. “Aren’t you coming?”

For the first time in her memory, Draco Malfoy is speechless. He gapes at her for a moment, and she watches as his brain snaps into overdrive, trying to keep up with her words. 

“I can sleep on the couch,” he finally says.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed is big enough for two.”

She spins and marches away, hoping that he’ll follow, terrified that he’ll follow. His socked feet pad lightly behind her, and she has her answer. They make it to the bedroom, and she slides under the covers on the side she prefers, as far from the open door as she can get.

Malfoy hovers beside the bed for an eternal moment before settling delicately on top of the covers. His wand is clenched in his fist.

“Granger,” his voice is soft, “I… don’t sleep well.”

Hermione barks a laugh, “Do you think I do?”

He coughs. “Well. I guess not.”

He slides into the bed, and Hermione waits nervously. The bedroom is dark and muffled, safe under her oppressive wards. The weight of him on the other side of her bed seems particularly heavy. The last person Hermione had shared a bed with had been Ron.

She swallows hard and pushes herself towards him, reaching forward and recoiling slightly when he flinches at her touch. Her hands are cold, and she imagines he’s as nervous as she is.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” She whispers. His eyes are the only thing she can see, practically shining in the sliver of moonlight from the curtain.

“Do you want me to?” 

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She _does_ want him to kiss her; it had felt so easy in the kitchen. As if there were no strings attached, and all the trauma of their childhood, and the war, and the WPG had just fallen away.

Malfoy’s hand finds her jaw, and he pulls himself above her only enough to press a featherlight kiss on the corner of her mouth. Hermione breathes in the scent of him: peppermint tea.

Her barely open mouth is an invitation, and Draco seizes it. He kisses her deeply, running his teeth along her bottom lip gently, pulling at it. Hermione lets herself unwind, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

She’s never kissed anyone like this — he’s got both hands wrapped around her jaw, and her own fingertips are scrambling for purchase on his shoulders.

It’s only when his mouth leaves hers, travelling down her neck with suckling kisses that leave her breathless that Hermione freezes minutely. 

It’s as if she’s doused him with ice water; he recoils quickly and absolutely, his hands retreating to his own space as though they had never been wrapped around her skin.

“Draco, no,” Hermione half begs, reaching towards him. “I’m fine, let’s just keep—”

He snaps a hand against hers and holds her at bay. It’s gentle but unwilling to budge. His thumb traces a path against the back of her hand. Hermione isn’t even sure if she is begging for him to keep stoking the fire he has ignited within her, or if some part of her is asking him to just get it _over with_.

She’s never been patient. She doesn’t like mysteries or unknowns; Draco is both, and she’s desperate to unravel him. 

“Granger.” His voice is softer than she expects it to be, and his hand is still clasped in hers.

“Malfoy,” Merlin — her voice sounds positively _wrecked_.

“This is good,” Draco whispers. “We’re doing good. Don’t ruin it.”

Hermione forces herself to think logically — she’s good at logic. It’s how she survives.

She has been married to Draco Malfoy for 9 and a half hours. It’s been more good than bad. She has exactly 342 days before she is expected to have a child with him. Voldemort has been dead for 562 days. 854 days since her parents knew her name.

The last 9 and a half hours have been some of her better ones.

“Okay,” she breathes. “You’re right. Okay.”

It’s as though she’s given him permission because he pulls her close once again and tucks her into his body. It’s unfamiliar — he holds her as though she is breakable. He smells nice; peppermint and pine, and Hermione breathes deeply through her nose. 

There is no rush.

She has 342 days.


	22. The Joke Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, my apologies for this disastrously late chapter. Real-life has been a bit hectic. Forgive the lack of D/H in this one, I'll make it up to you in the next chapter, which I am planning to have for you next weekend. Drop me a line if you enjoyed, I truly appreciate all your kind words of encouragement!

_November 16th, 1999 - Tuesday_

* * *

George Weasley has spent the better part of two years watching as his youngest brother has tried valiantly to stitch him back together where the war had torn him apart. Despite being lost in a haze of grief, it hasn’t escaped George’s notice that Ron has rallied around him in the face of Fred’s death. Ron’s decision to quit Auror training had been met with far less resistance than expected; the family had nearly breathed a sigh of relief when Ron had stepped in to fill Fred’s shoes. 

George can be honest with himself — he had been grateful. He _is still_ grateful for Ron’s actions the past year; he’s watched his youngest brother take on all the responsibilities of a shop owner, while also mourning Fred.

George has awoken far too often to the sound of Ron entering the small apartment above the shop; the smell of bleach and clanking of empty bottles being taken out nearly accusatory in the silence. The sight of a breakfast George could only half-heartedly eat.

In all that time, George has never seen Ron anything less than forcefully cheery, which is why it’s so surprising that his youngest brother enters the shop not only ten minutes late for work but also wearing an expression as though someone has died. 

“Ickle Ronnikins, why the long face?” 

Ron half-heartedly rolls his eyes at his brother’s words, “Neville brought Hannah home last night. She couldn’t even stand — apparently she’d shown up drunk at his doorstep.”

“Oh, that’s shite, mate,” George says, misery etched through his words. He knows this story. He’s _been_ this story. “Does she remember any of it?”

“No,” Ron says, “Or maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. I put her to bed and then talked to Neville for a bit. He doesn’t know what to do about it either. Apparently, it’s not even the first time she’s shown up at his place.”

“It’s gotta be hard for him, to see her like that?”

“It definitely is,” Ron agrees, setting down a paper coffee cup on their counter. “Turns out he _is_ living with Pansy Parkinson. Or Pansy Longbottom now. They got married at the Ministry right near the beginning and kept it hush-hush.”

“She must be a living nightmare.” George snickers, imagining waking up to Pansy Parkinson’s sneer and shrill voice. 

Ron shrugs, “I mean, he said nothing bad about her, so I wasn’t about to offend the man’s new wife. Even if she is a Slytherin.”

“Even though _your_ new wife is in love with him?”

Ron half-laughs and George winces. It hadn’t really been a joke.

“Even then, I suppose.” Ron sighs, “On top of all this, Hannah and I have been talking about starting a family. With the WPG, the whole point is kind of to pop out a few kids. We both want a family, so it seems natural to just go for it at this point. I just... never imagined starting my family like this.”

George stares at his brother — in moments like this, he could not be more like Arthur. Their father’s gentleness and compassion shine out of him like a light. Of all the Weasley children, it has always been obvious that Ron would be the one to follow in his father’s footsteps and have a large family. Charlie and Percy had been eager to escape the Weasley family home the moment they could to seek their independence. Even Bill had married Fleur and declared immediately that two children would be plenty, _thank you._ Of all of them, Ron has always been the most eager to go home. He’s never missed a holiday or Christmas — with the exception of the war, which everyone had missed. 

George had always imagined himself having a family at the same time as Fred. Children to prank and teach mischief to. Now — well, now he doesn’t know. There just isn’t much of him left to offer a family. Not much to offer a wife.

He winces, thinking of Parvati. She’d gone to visit Padma the night before, helping her prepare for her upcoming wedding to Blaise in only three day's time. 

The silence has been disquieting — George has become accustomed to the sounds and sights of another person living in his space. Parvati is tidy and gentle, and she knows to stay out of George’s way when he’s in a mood. She had transfigured the couch into a little bed and put a screen all around it, nary a word about sharing or intimacy passing her lips. All in all, she’s easy to live with.

The exception being the rare moments he finds her lost in a vision. Usually, he doesn’t even notice it — she sees things that don’t exist to him constantly, and it hardly trips her up. The first time he had found her shaking on their kitchen floor, he had reverted straight to the war; half crouching over her prone body with his wand out, healing diagnostic shining in the air.

It had been nearly four minutes before she would respond to him, and when she was finally sensate she had marched into his bedroom with a desperation he’d never seen Parvati wear, and incinerated anything remotely resembling the colour blue in his wardrobe. Not even purples nor shades of green had been spared her destructive wrath.

She hadn’t spoken a word about it since, but George remembers the warning she had delivered — his hands covered in blood as he screams, the dread of death in the air.

It’s hardly a chore to avoid a single colour of clothing.

“Hannah is... kind,” Ron says slowly, snapping George out of his thoughts. 

George sighs, “I’m sure she is.”

“I like her,” Ron shrugs, meeting George’s eyes. “I mean it. I’d probably like her a lot more if she wasn’t drinking herself to death, of course, but she’s always been kind to me. She’s got a good laugh.”

“Marriages aren’t made on kindness and laughing.” George bites the words out; he hadn’t intended to be so harsh. It’s not Ron he’s angry with — it’s this fucking world. It’s the fact that his beloved brother is consoling himself with _kindness_ instead of love.

Ron sighs, “They’ve been built on worse, George. I just… I feel for her. Her entire future she planned for years has changed practically overnight. She’s in _love_ with Neville. I just don’t know what to do to make it better for her.”

George heaves a breath, “I cannot believe I’m about to say this little brother, but... I think you should just keep being yourself. You keep saying she’s kind? Well, so are you. If I have learned anything, it’s that you’re good at taking care of people. The people you take care of… well, they might not notice you right away. But I promise… one day they look up and they see you’ve been there all along.”

Ron freezes minutely, and George sniffs and turns away. He watches out of the corner of his eye as he busies himself at the till. Ron sips slowly at his coffee, and George is struck once again by how _grown up_ he is.

“I s’pose you’re right Georgie,” Ron mutters, red staining his freckled cheeks. He’s got a half-smile on that reminds George so much of Fred it hurts. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well,” George scoffs, “No one will believe I said it if you tell.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Ron laughs, “Now get out of here. I was late today, I’ll take over so you can go have lunch.”

“Oi, since when do I take extended lunches—”

The bell above the door cuts off his protests, and in the fading light of the afternoon, he sees Parvati, her dark hair gleaming in the sun.

“Hello,” she greets, “I was hoping you would take me to lunch, George.”

Ron covers a laugh with his fist, and George throws him a dark look. He spins to face Parvati and bows low at her.

“Conveniently, my employee has agreed to cover my lunch,” George announces, “And whatever my wife wishes, I shall endeavour to do.” 

Parvati rolls her eyes at his words, though she loops her arm around his. George throws a wink at Ron over his shoulder and is rewarded by the sound of a genuine laugh.

* * *

George relays the entire story to Parvati as they snack on sandwiches from Fortescue’s. They’re on a picnic bench at a park a few blocks away, out of sight from the media. George isn’t famous the same way Ron, Hermione and Harry are by any means, but any matches from the WPG that haven’t yet been announced publicly are fair game to the Prophet. Poor Michael Corner and Mariette Edgecomb had found that out only a few days prior; Skeeter had ambushed them when buying a new couch for the house they now unwillingly shared.

“So, what do you see?” George asks, impatient.

Parvati scowls at him, “You know that’s not how this works! I see nothing. Just you, and blue, and blood. I see it all the time now. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, or try to change.” 

George breathes deeply, drawing on patience that doesn’t come naturally to his Gryffindor heart. “Okay. Okay. Do you see anything else at all? Besides the blue thing.”

Parvati frowns, “I see nothing about Hannah. I’m not very close to her, so it’s no surprise that it’s hidden from me even as I’m looking. I still see Malfoy and the champagne, so obviously, your clumsy attempts at trying to convince him not to drink champagne were in vain.”

George protests, “Well, I couldn’t very well tell him outright that my wife had seen him drink champagne and then lay in a grave where we then buried _his wife_ with him! I had to try something.”

Parvati sighs, “I know. You’re right.”

“I am?” George asks. The worst part about marrying a Seer is that he’s _never_ right.

“Yeah,” Parvati nods decisively, “You did change something, though. I still see Malfoy drink the champagne, and he’s still angry, but now Hermione is the one burying him in a mountain of tiny stones afterward. She’s crying. I can tell she’s desperate to bury him.”

George’s temper ignites, “Do you think she’s going to kill him?”

Parvati hums thoughtfully, and he watches her dark eyes go unfocused for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“ _Should she_?” He snarls. It’s irrelevant suddenly that he had seen Draco Malfoy at his wedding only a few days prior and he had looked harmless. If anything, he had looked smitten with Hermione. He hadn’t heard from Hermione since then, but Ron had mentioned nothing amiss. She’d still been going to work at the Ministry; if she hadn’t George would have heard about it, because Harry would have already stormed the cottage to find out why.

Parvati’s hand is suddenly gripping his arm tightly. “ _George_.”

It sounds as though she’s been repeating his name. She’s pale despite her darker complexion, and George briefly wonders how long he has been lost in murderous thoughts.

“Sorry.”

Parvati clears her throat, “I swear to you, if I saw anything else or anything bad about Hermione, I would tell you. And I _would_ see it, George. I love Hermione — we’ve known each other for years. I don’t think Draco Malfoy will hurt her. Not in any possible future I can see.”

George feels tension uncoil from his spine he wasn’t even aware he was carrying. It wasn’t as though he was afraid _for_ Hermione — she was an incredible witch, and it was a testament to her strength and formidability that George had assumed Parvati’s vision meant she was intending to kill Draco to protect herself. 

Hermione, despite the trauma that has since encased her in tremors and exhaustion, is ruthless. George is not so far removed from the war that he doesn’t remember the tenacity with which she can pursue something. If Harry had fallen to Voldemort’s wand, he is confident that Hermione would have found another way.

Her current fragility will not last forever. He had seen it the night the letters for the WPG had come. There is no doubt in his mind that if Draco Malfoy wished her harm, she would neutralize the threat. 

“On a slightly happier note,” Parvati says, pulling her hand back into her lap along with his attention. “I have also been seeing stars.”

“Stars?” 

Parvati half-smiles at his nonplussed expression. “Yes. Stars. Thousands of them all lit up in a clear night sky. It’s incredibly bright. Green eyes are watching the stars — I can see how green they are from the moonlight. Two stars fall at the exact same time, and they land in the green eyes. No idea what it means.”

“Green eyes like Harry’s?” George asks.

Parvati shrugs delicately. “Could be. Either way, it doesn’t feel bad. It actually feels... well, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Happy. Incandescent. Life-changing.”

“Well, that’s a delightful change,” George complains.

Parvati sticks out her tongue at his words, and George bites into his sandwich to ignore her sass. She looks lovely in her orange dress, and it isn’t the first time he has noticed how beautiful his wife is.

Parvati stops chewing abruptly and swallows hard. He’s unprepared for the moment that she turns and pins him with furious eyes. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” George is genuinely baffled.

“George, _stop_.” Her voice is like ice, and he has never heard her so commanding before. “You’re changing things. Stop. Please.”

“What could I possibly be changing right now?” He demands, gesturing at his half-eaten sandwich. “We’re eating lunch!”

Parvati stares at him for a long moment. He’s not hiding anything.

He _can’t_ hide anything.

“It’s nothing.” She finally says. “It’s fine.”

She finishes the last bite of her sandwich; George sips at his coffee. The silence is deafening; so many unspoken questions, so many secrets. They both carry ghosts around them; the invisibility only makes it more real.

“Look, let’s just make sure Ron and Hannah are okay. I think you’re right to tell him to be patient with her.” Parvati’s serious face turns mischievous, “I know that if my husband were kind and patient and giving, I would also appreciate it.”

“Hey!” George protests naturally, “I am a paragon of patience and kindness.”

Parvati’s face cracks into a smile, and George can’t help the fondness that sweeps into him. Perhaps Ron wasn’t completely wrong — kindness isn’t _nothing_.

“You’re something, alright.” Parvati agrees easily. “Though somehow patient wasn’t exactly the word I had in mind.”

George half-heartedly scowls at her, “It should be! You’re dragging me to _another_ wedding in three days, and once again I will be sober.”

Parvati’s expression turns soft. “You will. I don’t even have to see it to know. Thanks, George.”

He tosses his napkin at her and is rewarded with another laugh.


End file.
